Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fridays were Castiel’s least favorite day at Seattle Mercy Hospital. Sure, no one ever wanted to work urgent care, but Fridays? They were the absolute worst. For some reason, everyone decided Fridays were the day to do the stupidest shit Castiel had ever seen. Accidentally cursing themselves, third degree burns on horrifically painful places from a skyclad ritual bonfire gone wrong, young witches with broken legs because they apparently forgot the stabilizing charms on their brooms, werewolves who ate carpets… He’s seen it all.

Every damn Friday here he was.

He passes through the glass doorway and takes a cursory glance at the filled waiting room while masterfully dodging a young dragon-child’s sneeze of sparks and ash. Dragon Flu must be going around again. Awesome. Like he didn’t have anything else to do than getting his scrubs charred.

Not to say that Castiel hates his job. He loves his job! …Normally. Being a doctor would be a shitty career choice if he didn’t, and as an angel he was particularly good at it. Having the natural ability to heal just about anything pretty much put him on a fast track to getting paid whatever the hell he wanted while the hospitals salivated over his ability to do his job without bringing up costs. Castiel was fantastic for a hospital’s bottom line and his negotiation skills reflected that. But Fridays always left him so drained, grace depleted to the point he was held up by nothing but sheer force of will and copious amounts of caffeine.

And he wouldn’t mind it, not really. If the problems on Fridays weren’t so damned boring. He went into the profession to treat Fairy Tail Ailments and Curses, not dragon snot.

“Morning, Dr Novak!” Charlie beams from the reception desk, briefly turning from the mermaid getting salt water all over the new rug to give him a jolly wave.

He wishes he had half the morning cheer the red head did.

“Morning,” he calls back as he flees, ducking the eyes of hopeful patients, passing through to the back on his quest to get to the coffee machine. He needed coffee or he was going to pass out right here in the break room in his beloved beige duster with his face plastered on the table. The bitter scent slowly permeates the room as he waits impatiently, staring down the slow drip, drip, drip of the pot. Brown ambrosia finally acquired several tense minutes later, he chugs it like his life depends on it (or, in this case, someone else’s life which is definitely true).

He ditches his clothes in the locker room, pulling on his favorite bee scrubs. If he was going to be here all day then he damn well was going to wear his Bee Happy scrubs. A small light at the end of the urgent care disaster tunnel.

Maybe he spends a little too much time at the nurse station, slowly sipping his coffee as he checks over his first patient. Kitsune, 12 years old, fever, chills, tired, moody. Puberty, he thinks immediately. Kid’s been feverish for a week already, which isn’t ideal. Normal over the counter fever reducers should have taken care of that.

Plastering on his brightest smile to hide the unending dread of overbearing parents, he knocks on the door of exam room 13 before letting himself in with his clipboard, “Good morning! I’m Dr. Novak, how are you guys doing today?” he sits on his swivel chair, taking a cursory glimpse at the two people in the office. A mother and child with strawberry blonde hair, the child–Jacob, according to his chart–covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

Amy, the mother, sighs, “Not great, Mister Novak,” Castiel internally bristles, he didn’t go to school for 15 years to be called mister, “Jacob has been feverish for the last week. I’ve tried everything over the counter. He’s been living on pituitary glands from the morgue, and I’m worried we might need something fresher, you know?”

Castiel just barely manages to keep himself from snorting and pinching his nose. He really should get a raise, the way he manages not to call his patients idiots. What was with some monsters and immediately jumping to eating people? Corpses! Seriously? Kid was probably going through puberty, he wasn’t about to fucking die. He manages to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he smiles, “Well, let’s take a look before we start to worry about fresh brains. How are you feeling, Jacob? Any pain?”

He spends the next fifteen minutes checking Jacob’s vitals. Really, it only takes five minutes because everything is perfectly normal for a young Kitsune going through puberty. Like he figured originally. The extra ten minutes is spent trying to convince Miss Pond that it was just puberty, and finally ordering every blood test under the sun just to alleviate her worry.

Despite the lack of coffee in his veins at 8:30 am, he managed to not rub it right in her face when the test results came in normal. It was much too early to deal with overbearing, nervous mothers. Desperately he wishes that he had more control over his schedule, that he could get one of those delicious, coveted night shifts. But apparently creatures that couldn’t live in daylight had priority for those, and Castiel, a sad, morning hating angel, was not. No matter his fantastic bottom-line-saving magic the hospital just refused to take pity on him.

Plastering on his best customer service face, and God, he thought he left that behind at the Gas-N-Sip, he says, “No need to worry about finding fresh pituitary glands, Miss Pond. In fact, I’d wager the corpse organs are probably what’s wreaking havoc on his immune system. He’s about the age to go through the change, all the sweating is perfectly normal. Puberty is a very challenging time for creatures,” he turns away, fingers flying over his keyboard, “Luckily, supplements have come a long way in the last few decades. No more pituitary glands for Jacob. I’m prescribing Pituafax. Make sure to take it in the morning with food. I’d like to see him back in eight weeks.”

---

Another twenty minutes later he finally manages to usher her out of his office, all pleasant smiles and handshakes, internally raging for her to get the fuck out of the way so he could get back to his Blessed Coffee Pot. Briefly he considers just… grabbing the entire thing and running off to his office with it, but he’s fairly certain the other doctors and nurses would track him down with a vengeance and pull it from his cold, dead hands.

“Rough morning, Doctor Novak?” Nurse Anna smiles at him pleasantly, a glint of glee in her eyes, “Miss Pond giving you trouble?”

He sighs heavily, leaning his hip against the nurse station to rub his hand up and down his face, “...Corpse organs.”

“No!” Anna’s gasps, scandalized, grin somehow becomes wider as she leans forward for the gossip, “I figured she was giving him some Wal-Mart hormone knockoff! But corpse organs?”

“She was ready to go fresh,” he says flatly.

“...Fresh? Seriously? Does she know it’s not the middle ages anymore?”

“I know!” Castiel throws his hands up in frustration, coffee splashing on his wrists as his wings flare up, reminiscent of an angry pigeon, “What is it with parents with sick kids immediately jumping to muder? Do they want hunters to start pounding down their doors?” he sighs heavily, wondering if he could somehow sneak out and not have to deal with the rest of the day, “...make sure to put a note in his file about the new hormones. Hopefully she gives him the damn drugs and isn’t a traditionalist.”

Anna gives him a sympathetic nod as she passes him the next file. God, why was urgent care still doing this shit with paper. The rest of the Grimm Ward had tablets. Beautiful, wonderful, tree saving tablets, “Next case is the Winchesters… again. Congratulations, you finally get to meet the men that practically funded the new vending machines and Keurig.”

“The Winchesters?” he raises his eyebrow as he flips through the pages.

He’d never met the Winchesters himself, but knew them through reputation. The younger brother was some sort of witch in training; very poor training if the constant visits to urgent care were any indication. If those two showed up any more often the hospital would have to start giving them a stamp card.

Buy ten curse breaks and get one free.

Or maybe offer them frequent flyer miles.

He chuckled to himself, eyes scanning the paper. At least the Winchesters were interesting.

---

The first time he meets Sam Winchester, the teen is sitting in one of the exam room chairs, a guilty smile on his face, cardboard box in his hands. He’s also stupidly tall, damn near taller than Castiel even while sitting. If he was a less confident man he might have been intimidated by the gangly-limbed teenager, “Good morning, Doctor Novak.”

Castiel cocks his head as he sits, “Good morning, Mister Winche-”

“Oh! Just Sam is fine.”

“Sam then. What brings you here today? Your chart mentioned your brother was cursed?” he leaves out the ‘again’ but they both hear it in the empty air as he looks around for the missing brother, half expecting him to pop out of thin air or ooze out from some hidden place.

“Ah… Yea. Um. I might have cursed him–Accidentally! It wasn’t on purpose or anything. I was trying to do a love spell for him-” a loud, offended ribbit sounds from the cardboard box in his lap and Castiel bites his lip to keep from laughing as a large, fat frog pokes its head out to glare at Sam, “...and this happened.”

The first time Castiel meets Dean Winchester he’s a frog. And it is by far the best day he’s had in urgent care in a long while.

“Oh my! Careful there little fellow,” Castiel really can’t help but laugh as he catches the frog mid escape attempt. Dean looks more offended than a frog has any right to be as he brings him up to his face to inspect, looking for any markings. As expected, a ring of gold around his head resembling a crown and a heart shaped mark under the long, sticky tongue.

Dean’s eyes narrow and his tongue flicks out and it feels suspiciously like Castiel is getting the bird. It is absolutely delightful.

“We tried the counter spell but it didn’t work,” Sam admits as his shoulders slump, “...you can turn him back right?”

“Oh I’m sure we can,” he turns, frog in hand, to run his fingers over the books on his shelf. It’s been a while since he needed to break out the ‘Bible’ and he found himself rather excited for it. This was his favorite part of the job. Good old fairy tale bullshit and their nonsensical solutions. He pulls Grimm’s fairy tales from the shelf and starts leafing through, “Let’s see what the Doctors Grimm have to say. Hmm… frog… frog… Ah, here we are. Has he been kissed by his true love?” Castiel glances up from the book.

“No true love that I know of,” Sam shrugs, both men looking to Dean for confirmation. The frog just ribbits.

“No true love then… hmm… That makes it a little more difficult. Most true love spells are broken by a kiss… Any pieces of clothing left behind? Shoes?”

Again Sam shakes his head, “No, everything changed with him.”

“A difficult case, I see… Any evil step parents to put into nail filled barrels and roll down hills?”

The frog croaks loudly, a round of chirping resembling laughter following as Sam snorts and shakes his head, “Nope. Mom and dad are both dead, no step parents to speak of.”

“Any dancing siblings or swan brothers?”

Again a shake of the head, “No, I’m the only brother.”

Castiel clicks his tongue and taps the page as he thinks, going over The Princess and the Frog again in his mind. He distinctly remembers his Supernatural Ailments professor mentioning the original works having a stranger ending. The American versions could be so watered down. He slots the book back on the shelf and nabs his translated copy of Kinder-und Hausmärchen, 1812, and flips to the Der Froschkönig. Good thing his German was decent.

“Ah, interesting,” what a peculiar way to break a curse. He smiles a little guiltily down at the frog sitting on his knee, “I’m quite sorry about this, Dean. It might hurt for just a moment.”

Sam’s eyes brighten as he sits up straighter, ignoring his brother’s suspicious croak, “You know how to fix him?”

“We’ll know in just a second.”

Castiel takes the frog in hand and stands, moving some of his furniture out of the way much to Sam’s confusion. And then without further ado he moves to the other side of the room and chucks Dean against the wall where he slams with a wet THWUMP.

The indignant croaks of the frog warp to a sputtered out, “--WHAT THE FUCK DUDE?” Sam is busy laughing himself hoarse over his brother’s crumpled, now very much human form on the floor. Castiel, however, is breathless for an entirely different reason. Dean Winchester, frog prince, frequent visitor of Seattle Mercy Hospital’s Grimm Ward is the most beautiful creature Castiel has ever seen. And he’s seen Sirens and Mermaids and Angels and Demons and Succubi. Bright green eyes reminiscent of his favorite type of bee balm leaf, sunkissed skin dotted with barely there freckles, soft plush lips that Castiel would absolutely love to see wrapped around his--

“Did you throw me against a wall!?” the young man turns to his brother, “guy threw me against the wall! What the fuck?!”

I’ll throw you against a wall alright, Castiel thinks wildly, fighting to keep himself from openly ogling him. He pushes his raging hormones down and gives him a placating smile, “I really am sorry for that, Mister Winchester. Unfortunately, without true love in the wings, breaking curses can get a little, ah, violent sometimes.”

Dean snorts, standing and rubbing his tailbone, “Yea, no shit man.”

“Dean!” Sam hisses, “you can’t talk to the doctor like that!”

“Dude threw me against the wall, Sammy--” he’s interrupted by an aggravated It’s Sam, Dean!, but plows on, “--I’ll talk to him however I want.”

Oh, how Castiel would love to hear him talk. In bed. Naked. Babbling while Castiel fu-- Right. At work. Professional Castiel time, not lust after a patient time.

“It’s quite alright, Sam. No harm done. How are you feeling, Dean? Any lingering effects? Desire to eat flies or ribbit?”

“No, nothing weird like that. Just feeling pissed. What the fuck Sammy? A love spell?”

And right there in the office the two brothers began to bicker back and forth, allowing Castiel to get all the juicy details he needed. Dean was single. Has been so since he broke up with some woman named ‘Lisa’ a few months prior. But single! Which meant he was all Castiel’s for the taking. Assuming Dean was into men, of course.

Dear God he hoped he was. A man like that? He was practically made for Castiel to go all moon eyed over.

The short rap of knuckles on the door breaks up the Winchester death match and Castiel turns to see Anna peeking her head inside, eyebrows raised, “Um… Sorry, Doctor Novak, I don’t mean to interrupt. But some of the patients were reporting… ah… yelling?”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” Sam jumps up, face flushed red as his brother rolls his eyes, apparently unbothered, “We’ll get out of your hair, Doctor Novak. We didn’t mean to make a racket--”

“You might be the Lorax, Sammy, but you don’t speak for me--”

“My Brother and I will get out of your hair. You probably have other patients…?” The smile Sam gives him is apologetic. And sure, the apology is for the noise, but it works just as well for the crushing disappointment of Dean Winchester not being two feet from him anymore.

“I’m afraid so. It was a pleasure to meet both of you.”

And if his handshake with Dean lingers a little longer than necessary and his wings fluff out a little bit, displaying like a love struck horny peacock, well no one needs to know that but Dean Winchester. Which he definitely does. Notice, that is. But judging by the confusion painted on his beautiful, stupid face he doesn’t recognize it as the flirt it is.

Damn.

Humans are so complicated.

Well, there’s always next time, Castiel consoles himself as he stares blatantly at Dean’s retreating ass. The Winchesters were in at least once a week on Fridays. Which is apparently his new favorite day.

Chapter Text

What the fuck kind of hospital was that? The doctor threw him against a wall! A literal wall! Dean turns to his brother, scowl on his face as he slams the door to their tiny studio apartment, “What the actual fuck, Sammy? Did you see that dude? He wanted to fight me!”

Sam turns from where he’s hanging up his coat, brows furrowing, “...What are you talking about, Dean?”

“The doctor, Sammy!”

“It’s Sam, De-”

“Dude got all puffed up when we left. I’ve seen Animal Planet, I know what that fucking means.”

There’s a pause where Sam just stares at him, “...Dean. Doctor Novak is an angel , not a… bird.”

“Bird, angel, same difference, Sammy. They both got feathers.”

Sam’s eyes close and he takes a deep breath, and Dean feels maybe a little offended, because that’s the same look their dad gave when--no. Nope, not going there, “Dean. Angels are definitely not birds. Not even close. Even the skeletal structure of their wings--”

“Yea, Sammy, I get it. You’re a nerd. Besides, I know what I saw. That dude puffed up and looked like he wanted to peck my eyeballs out!” Dean vividly remembers watching Animal Planet one night in horrified fascination. Sure, it was two in the morning at the time, but a man doesn’t ever forget watching an owl rip open a small rodent while they’re eating cereal. To this day he still can’t eat Cap’N Crunch. God, he loved that cereal so much. Anyway, Novak had the same exact predatory look in his eyes that owl did as it was feasting on a mousey buffet. 

“Dean, he’s an angel . Angel’s are probably the least likely to peck your eyes out,” Sam shakes his head at him and Dean huffs as he plops down on their battered couch. He pretends not to feel the couch spring poking his ass while he shifts around to get comfortable.

“Sure, whatever you say, Sammy,” he levels his brother with a look, “how about you explain to me what the fuck you were doing trying to whammy me?”

Sam at least has the good sense to look guilty as he sinks into the old wingback across from him, “...I didn’t think it would turn you into a frog,” and that is entirely not the problem, “I’m not sure what I did wrong, but next time--”

“ Next time? Sammy, there’s not going to be a next time. I don’t mind being your magical guinea pig, but I gotta draw the line at love spells, man. What the hell?” Sammy gives him that sad, kicked puppy look and Dean steadfastly ignores it. He does lower his voice though, “Seriously, Sammy. What were you doing?”

“Look Dean, I know you and Lisa breaking up was my fault. I just wanted--”

Dean holds up a hand, cutting his brother off, “I’m going to stop you right there, Sammy. Lisa didn’t break up with me because of you, what the fuck are you talking about?”

And God, Dean feels like the biggest asshole on the planet as Sam’s shoulders hunch up. He barely manages to keep from swatting Sam’s hand away when his little brother starts pulling at a stray string on his hoodie, “Lisa broke up with you because she wanted the American dream, right?” and Dean’s heart breaks just a little at Sam’s soft, guilty tone, “But she couldn’t have that while you’re taking care of me. Not with me being a witch. I’m not dumb, Dean. First it was dad, now it’s your girlfriend.”

It takes a moment for Dean to work the words out, “Sammy, it’s not your fault. Dad, Lisa. None of it. Dad left because he’s a dick, and Lisa… yea she wanted something I couldn’t give her, but that’s on her, Sammy. We’re a package deal as much as she and Ben were. I told her that from the jump. It’s not your fault or mine if she thought she could change my mind or something.”

“Okay, fine, maybe Lisa wasn’t my fault. But dad would still be here if--”

The sharp sound of his hand slamming against the coffee table cuts Sam off mid-sentence and Dean levels him with a harsh stare, “Dad left because he’s a racist asshole, Sammy!” he winces immediately at his tone and tries to reign in that roiling rage in his gut, taking a deep breath, “Dad chose to leave because he doesn’t understand shit and can’t handle that. It’s not your fault. If the guy’s going to be that much of an asshole we don’t need him around anyway. Not like he was much of a father to begin with.”

It shocks Sammy to hear him say it, he knows without even looking. He’s even shocked himself, just a little, though he supposed it’s a confession long since due. Dad--no, John hadn’t been a father to either of them since their mother had died. At one point Dean would have defended him till his dying breath. Excuse after excuse for why he wasn’t home, why he moved them around all the time, why he drank their grocery money away, why Dean was forced to drop out of school to work to keep a roof over their head. The excuses and explanations flowed like water out of a broken tap, seemingly never ending. John was a Hunter! He was doing an important job, saving people. Until John Winchester had snapped and decked his teenage son for being a witch. Hunter or not, that was one thing Dean could never forgive.

“You don’t… miss him? You were always closer to him than I was…” and God, Dean hates that tone almost as much as he hates the sad sack voice. The soft pity makes his skin crawl with the heebie jeebies.

“Alright, enough with this Hallmark movie shit. No more love spells, capiche?” he points a threatening finger at Sam, wagging it in front of his nose.

Sam bites back a grin, “Alright, fine, no more love spells. But you know,” and oh no, here comes the meddling, “Feel kind of bad about lying to him about dad being dead, but…”

Dean snorts as he narrows his eyes, waiting for the trap, “Yea, that might have been a long story for the fifteen minutes the dude had with us.”

His little brother sasquatch is very, very bad at pretending to be nonchalant, picking up his thrift-store copy of Magical Theory and Cosmic Law, “I don’t know, I think he seems nice. Maybe someone you could talk to?”

“Uh-huh, sure, I’ll get right onto going to therapy, Sammy,” he can’t help but scoff as he leans over the arm of the couch to grab a beer from the mini fridge.

“Well, maybe not therapy… but he was pretty handsome. Charlie says he’s single, too, I just thought that was interesting.” Aaaaaaaaand there it was. The innocent, wide eyed expression his brother wears tricks no one, and especially not Dean.

“Haha, no.”

“Aww come on Dean! You never know, maybe--”

“Ok, first of all, that dude wanted to fucking end my existence. Definitely not happening. And second, I told you, no love spells!”

Sam neatly rests his hands on his knees, gaze imploring, “I meant you should ask him out! I just want to see you happy, Dean.”

When did his life become this? He was cool, once. Now he’s got his Bigfoot of a brother trying to set him up with some old doctor. What was he, some Victorian maiden getting long in the tooth? “Sure,” he drawls, “I’ll ask him out and he can eat my spleen in an alley.”

“He’s not going to eat your spleen, Dean. Angels don’t even eat spleens.”

“Don’t you have magical homework or some shit to do?”

---

The second time Dean Winchester sees Doctor Novak he doesn’t actually see him per se. In fact you could say he doesn’t see him at all. Ha!

Because he’s blind.

Sam’s had to guide him through the urgent care lobby to the reception desk where Charlie greets them with a bright chirp of, “Hey, bitches!” and, “Damn, it’s Friday already? So what’s going on this time dudes?”

“I um. Accidentally summoned some sort of bramble thicket and it… uh, made Dean go blind? Somehow?” Sam shrugs awkwardly, and Dean can just feel his stare at his fucked up eyes. They fucking itch .

“Oh damn! That’s some fairy tale shit right there,” Charlie agrees as she checks them in with a delighted cackle, “Cas will absolutely love this. Be the height of his afternoon.”

“I’m glad my blind ass brings you joy, Charlie,” Dean mutters flatly, scowling in what he hopes is the right direction. He figures it’s not when Sam delicately turns his face slightly to the side.

“Cas?” He can hear Sam moving forward, the tap of a plastic card on the counter. God, at least the state gave them good insurance. Hopefully Sam was done doing weird shit to him by the time he turns 21. Dean’s wallet can only hope.

“Oh, Castiel! Doctor Novak. You met him last friday.”

“Oh!” and shit, Sam’s oh sounded much more interested (and therefore suspicious) than Charlie’s had, “did you hear that, Dean? His name is Castiel.”

And ok, Dean is suddenly glad he can’t see the shit eating grins on both Charlie and Sam’s faces. He only has so much patience to spare, and he’s used most of that getting briars in his fucking eyes. “ANYWAY. Sam, take me to go sit down before I fall on my face and fuck it up anymore.”

His mood has only soured an hour later by the time the nurse finally comes back for them. Anna, by the sounds of it. A much less terrifying angel than the one who wanted to murder him in a bird y mano smackdown, “Sorry for the wait, Friday afternoons are so busy! How are you boys doing today? Can I get your last name and date of birth, Dean?”

He dutifully rattles off whatever she asks of him and only trips over his feet a few times as they lead him into the exam room. It’s only after he nearly falls off the side of the exam table that he (very begrudgingly) allows Sam and Anna to help him up. The paper crinkles under him and he can’t help but wrinkle his nose.

“Doctor Novak will be here in just a minute. He’s finishing up next door,” Dean can only assume the smile in her voice is reflected in her face as he gives her a two finger salute.

Off to his side he can hear Sam digging around in his duffle, probably taking out a book or something, the nerd. Dean might not have done a lot of shit right, but raising Sammy? He aced that shit. The start of a smile is instantly off his face when he hears the knock on the door before it opens.

Right.

The murderous pigeon.

“Good morning! How are you both doing today?” Doctor Novak’s tone is merry as he takes a seat somewhere off to Dean’s left. A shiver runs down his spine. Not that he’s scared of the old dude. Ok, Novak’s not old , old. But he’s got a good ten years on Dean’s 20. Dude’s gotta be what, 30, 35? Point is Dean is definitely not scared of a hot old man with wings. Not that Dean can tell he’s hot while he’s freaking blind .

“Pretty shit doc. Kinda blind here,” he scowls at where he thinks Novak is, only to huff and turn his head a little to the side when he hears the man clear his throat.

“I see. Some kind of spell mishap again?”

“No shi-”

“ Yes ,” Sam interrupts, “I was practicing a hair growth tonic and I think the dragonfly wings weren’t diced right. For some reason the cauldron sprouted a thicket… then Dean came home and, um…”

“I tripped on one of Sammy’s spellbooks and fell face first into the prickers.”

And boy, does it ever rustle his jimmies to hear the stifled laugh in Novak’s tone, “Tripped on a spellbook?”

“My spellwork area is in the living room,” Sam explains, “we don’t have a lot of room at home, so…”

“Yea, sure Sammy, not like I pick your socks up off the floor all the time either,” Dean rolls his eyes so hard his shoulders go along for the ride, “Don’t let him fool you doc, he’s just a slob.”

“Dean !” Sam hisses, sounding positively scandalized as Dean snorts out a laugh. Serves him right.

“Well, far be it for me to judge how clean one keeps their domicile,” Really? Domicile? Who talks like that? Old men, that’s who, “did you happen to bring the briar bush with you?”

Sam’s bag rustles again as he, assumedly, pulls out a branch of the offending vegetation, “I brought a bit of it along.”

“Interesting,” Doctor Novak hums as his chair squeaks with his movement. Dean tries to follow the sound, brows furrowing, “ Rubus chloocladus. Native to central and western Europe. Thank you, Sam, this is very helpful,“ Dean definitely doesn’t startle as Novak’s voice is suddenly right next to him, “I’m going to do a quick exam of your eyes, Mister Winchester.”

“Fuck, put a bell on--”

“You can call him Dean,” Sam pipes up oh so helpfully from his other side. Fucking traitor. 

“Oh, is that so?” Dean’s going to be stuck with this scowl on his face if Doctor Novak keeps sounding so fucking smug, “Well then, Dean it is. I’m going to touch your face now, try not to jump. Don’t want to accidentally take your eye out.”

It takes everything Dean has not to whip his head around and stare at his brother, his mind screaming I told you so in surround sound. But he actually does want to keep his eyeballs firmly in his eye sockets, fuck you very much, so he keeps still as the doctor carefully touches the inflamed skin of his eyelids. It’s a lot gentler than Dean was expecting for someone who had it in for him. Soft and prodding but not painful, delicate over the swollen, painful patches close to his nose. If Dean was a lesser man he might even say the soft touch was nice in a way even Lisa’s touch hadn’t been. Not that Lisa had a habit of gently petting Dean’s face. Not that the doctor was petting.

“Do you feel any pain when I press here?”

Holy shit. Of fucking course he does, he got stabbed in the eye with thorns. He went blind not fucking numb, “Not really, no.”

There’s a long pause and his fingers press a little bit harder, and Dean can’t hide the hiss of pain this time, “...Ok, maybe a little.”

“A little? On a scale of one to ten with one being almost no pain and ten being the most pain you’ve ever felt?” Novak’s voice is soft and coaxing, and Dean would swear up and down in court that Castiel’s doing some sort of weird angel mojo on him, because for once he answers honestly, “A five. Getting shot was a ten for sure.”

“Dean! You said you barely felt it!” 

“... Shot…?” He only hears Castiel’s mumbled whisper over Sam’s scolding because the guy is right there . Novak must be pretty quick to collect himself though, because a second later the fingers are gliding over his eyes again and gently prying his lids open. Not that Dean can even see an out of focus blob, “I can heal the cuts no problem, but judging by the swirl of magenta in his tear film I’d say the blindness is a secondary magical effect. This might feel a little warm, Dean.”

A little warm is definitely not how Dean would describe the flow of grace into his eyes and skin. It’s warm, sure, but it’s the electric shock of a tingle that races up his spine that triggers the vivid feelings, abstract and elusive but somehow still perfectly concrete. It’s the distant memory of a breeze carding through his hair, of honey, whiskey and pie on picnic blankets dappled in the shadow of sunlight through feathers that steals Dean’s breath away.

“...A little warm my ass,” Dean manages to choke out breathier than he intended, which only fuels the pink of his cheeks when he hears Novak’s warm chuckle.

“Some people may experience grace more profoundly than others,” Novak sounds further away and Dean desperately wants to huff and argue about that but Sam manages to speak before the first syllable can leave his lips.

“So how do we cure the blindness, Doctor Novak?”

Yea, that.

“Well, luckily I was able to identify the particular genus and species of your mystery Bramble. Being that it’s native to Germany, we’ll start with consulting Doctor Grimm again,” now that the pain is gone Dean allows himself an eyeroll at how pleased Castiel sounds, “There are quite a few magical maladies that could result in blindness but only one that results in blindness via bramble. Rapunzel.”

“Rapunzel? Hate to break it to you doc, but Sammy’s the one who needs a haircut, not me.”

“Screw you, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Castiel’s soft laugh draws his attention back with a scowl. He can’t see the guy’s face but he doubts it has much effect on the effervescent angel, “The prince in the story suffers blindness after falling from the tower into a patch of brambles.”

“Just like Dean fell into my bramble cauldron?”

“Exactly. I don’t suppose you’ve gotten a true love since the last time you were in?” There’s a strange undertone to Castiel’s question. A false sense of nonchalance that Dean is intimately familiar with. Dean is the master of bullshittery, after all. Suspicious.

“Can’t say I have, doc.”

“Well,” why does the bastard sound so pleased about that? Asshole, “you might want to get yourself one, Dean. All these curses would be much easier to solve with a kiss.” 

He turns his narrowed eyes to Sam when he hears the little fucker snicker, the sound muffled somewhat, probably behind his hand. Dean knows exactly what his bratty brother is thinking and it makes him bristle, “Yea, well, curtain number two, Monty.”

“...I don’t understand that reference,” Castiel says breezily, “but we’ll need some tears of someone who loves you to drop into your eyes.”

“I beg your fucking pardon?” Dean says flatly the same time Sam says, “what?”

“The cure for bramble blindness in Rapunzel is the tears of his true love in his eye. Of course I don’t expect you to hover over him crying, Sam. I have a tear dropper here in the drawer and some scented oils designed to facilitate tear production,” Dean hears the sound of him rummaging around in a drawer and eventually the tear of paper, “Would you like me to leave while you collect your tears, Sam?”

“No, no, that’s fine. I just… cry… into the vial?”

“Yes, that’s right. Then we’ll administer the tears directly through the dropper.”

What even is his fucking life. Getting thrown into walls and then having his brother’s tears dropped in his eyeballs. All Dean can do is lament internally about this ridiculous magic shit while he waits for his brother to literally cry him the equivalent of the proverbial river. 

“Ok, Dean, I’m going to use the tears now. Try to keep your eyes open,” the hand is back on his face, carefully cradling his chin. And Dean isn’t too scared shitless of this dude to admit he has nice hands, calloused and long fingered. Maybe Dean would even be interested in those fingers and hands if the guy didn’t threaten him with blindness five minutes ago.

Not that he wasn’t already blind. Semantics. Whatever.

He winces and blinks rapidly as the tears fall in his eyes and slowly the darkness gives way to a blur of bright yellow and tan and black and brilliant, clear skies blue. He blinks again and the room comes into focus, and he sees Castiel--no, Doctor Novak -- leaning over him with a warm smile, “Ah… there he is. How many fingers am I holding up, Dean?” 

“Two,” he replies automatically, going slightly cross eyed to see the fingers barely an inch from his nose.

“No lingering black spots or floating particles? Lights?”

Dean focuses a minute and shakes his head, “No, everything looks good.”

“It does, yes,” Castiel winks at him and Dean just stares, perplexed. What the fuck was that? He looks over at Sam as if to confirm that yes, did you see that shit? But Sam isn’t looking at him, he’s tucking the bramble back in his backpack. Confused and maybe a little aroused (and isn’t that a weird ass feeling he’s not going to write in the diary he doesn’t have) he looks back to Castiel.

“Right, um. Are we good then, or…?” Dean gestures at the door and Dean desperately wants to leave, like, five minutes ago.

“Of course, let me walk you to the front. Come back in or give us a call if you notice anything strange in the next few days,” Castiel stands and thank God , Dean takes that as his cue to flee the fuck out of here. Well, he would if Sam would get the hell out of his way and out of the doorway where he’s talking rapidly to Castiel as they leave.

Castiel, who is standing behind him.

Castiel, who Dean is one thousand percent sure just had his hand on the small of Dean’s back as he ushers them from the room.

Castiel, who’s talking back to Sam and saying some sort of words Dean can’t hear through the raging hormones in his brain.

He had to have imagined it. There was no way. The dude hated him. Hell he wanted to fight him just last week! He was so sure of it. He’d seen Animal Planet! He knows what birds do. But. Ok yea, Sam was right. Castiel wasn’t a bird , he was an angel. And maybe it wasn’t fair to compare his behavior to a pigeon. Dean would be a huge fucking liar if he said he’d rather have the guy wanting to throw hands than… whatever that wink was about. 

Maybe he should watch the National Geographics special on angels instead.

Chapter Text

Castiel spends much too long looking for his damn stethoscope.

It’s his favorite one. A custom ordered one with a delightful pattern of cartoon guinea pigs and bumblebees. He paid a good deal for it and would be pissed beyond measure if he can’t find. The. Damned. Thing.

He bet Doctor Palmer stole it again.

‘Doctor Sexy’, he scoffs to himself as he roots around in the supply drawers of exam room 13. What kind of man called himself that? And what kind of doctor wore cowboy boots? Absolutely ridiculous.

He slams the door closed on his way out, startling a few of the nurses and ignores them as he stalks to room 7, Doctor Palmer’s preferred room. ‘ Lucky number Seven, doctor, ’ Palmer had said with a wink. A fucking wink.

Asshole.

He doesn’t hear the noise inside before he opens the door--it’s not marked as being in use, for fuck’s sake--and gets more of an eyeful of Doctor Palmer’s pasty ass and Miss Talbot’s breasts than he would like. He snaps it closed but not before seeing that yes, that fucker had taken his stethoscope . Again . 

“Get your own damn stethoscope !” Castiel snarls through the door, pounding his fist on the wood once, “And lock the door!” 

Stalking back down the hall towards the nurse’s station, casual as can be despite his raging blood, Castiel swipes the tablet off the counter and checks on the notes for his next patient. A unicorn with a cracked horn. Boring, but better than dealing with another case of dragon flu, “I swear Crowley is trying to give me the most boring cases he can find.”

“You know Crowley doesn’t have anything to do with who gets what patient, Castiel. That’s Meg in scheduling. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and all,” Anna frowns at the pile of papers in front of her, squinting as she tries to enter Doctor Palmer’s notes.

Ugh, Meg . Turn a demon down one time and suddenly your schedule is crap forever, “Maybe they’re teaming up against me,” he grins at her growing scowl, “Problem?”

Anna snorts softly, fingers flying over the keyboard as she inputs her best guesstimate as to what Doctor Palmer was trying to say, “...I swear, Palmer needs to spend less time making out in closets and more time learning to write,” she gives up, tossing the pile of papers to the side and turning her chair to face Castiel.

“I walked in on him in the elevator last week.”

“ No ,” she gasps, “The elevator?”

“Yep,” he drawls, letting the ‘ p’ pop as his nose curls, “doors open and there he was, tongue down some nurse’s throat.”

“A nurse? What happened to Doctor Piccolo? I thought for sure they were going to get married this summer,” Anna sips her boba tea, peering down the halls before leaning forward and whispering, “you know, after she got over him sleeping with her evil triplet.”

Castiel can’t help but huff. Everyone heard about that. For his part Castiel was entirely unimpressed. Doctor Palmer may have more than his share of hospital paramours, but Castiel had little respect for cheaters whether they were ‘handsome enough to get away with it’ or not, “No idea. Ask Miss Talbot, he’s with her in exam room 7 now. I’m still not convinced he didn’t know that wasn’t Ellen. Man certainly doesn’t think with his brain.”

“Miss Talbot? From Legal?!”

“One and the same.”

“...Well, can’t say anything about taste,” Anna shrugs, “Honestly he’s lucky he’s so talented. Experimental face transplants? Really? I thought for sure Crowley and all of the legal team were going to have aneurysms.”

“What a coincidence, he gives me aneurysms too. Especially after the mess he made in the supply closet. It took forever to disinfect that room and we had to throw away so many supplies. He’s a damn doctor, he should know you can’t do that kind of thing around hospital equipment… It’s not like pixie dust and newt eyes grow on trees,” Castiel scowls, “man has no respect for Grimm Ward supplies. No, we can’t just go down to Walmart and get more.”

“He has no respect for creatures in general,” Anna simply shakes her head in fond amusement at his bubbling rage and makes grabby hands at the tablet, “He asked me if it hurt when I fell from heaven when I first started working here.”

“ No ! How has he not been in HR every week?” He props his elbows on the counter and cups his chin in them, giving Anna his best, brightest smile as he passes it over, “Anyway. So, Anna.”

Her eyebrow creeps up, unimpressed, “Yes?”

“The Winchesters were in last Friday. Again.”

Anna’s face morphs almost instantly into a laughing smile, eyes bright. Gossiping about the Winchesters was her favorite pastime, “I saw! Those scratches looked horrible!”

“Briar patch. And I couldn’t help but notice that it’s a regular Friday occurrence. We could set our watches to it. Always seems to be some sort of magical mishap, too. What kind of coven is Sam studying with that Dean always ends up…” he makes a vague gesture at his face.

“Oh, he’s a solitary witch, I think,” Anna taps her chin thoughtfully.

Castiel blinks slowly,eyebrows flying up, “...a solitary teenage witch? He’s not even old enough for a casting permit.”

“I know. They’ve been coming once a week since I’ve been here. From what I understand, he’s been attending human high school in addition to his magical studies at home,” her voice is warm and soft, a fond smile on her face, “Dean talks about him all the time. Apparently, Sam is very smart, wants to go to Stanford for the Magical Law program.”

“That’s quite impressive. I imagine their parents were very proud before they passed.”

Anna shrugs, “Oh, no idea. It’s only been them as far as I know.”

“So it wasn’t recently that their parents died?”

“I don’t think so. If they’ve been around I never met them,” she shrugs apologetically, flicking her finger on the tablet, “and they’ve never talked about them, either.”

“I see… so Dean is Sam’s guardian then?”

Anna pauses, glancing up at him thoughtfully before her eyes squint just a fraction and a sly smile passes over her lips. Oh dear, he’s been caught, hasn’t he? “You seem awfully interested in the Winchesters, Castiel.” Yep, caught.

Castiel gives her a not-at-all-guilty smile and shrugs, “Dean has quite a lovely aura. It’s hard not to be interested.”

“Awww, Castiel! Are you smitten?”

“ Smitten , Anna? Really?” a blush raises on his cheeks as Anna just grins at him, “...maybe a little. He’s so bright .”

“I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that he’s incredibly handsome for a human, too,” she teases.

“Guilty,” he sighs dreamily, eyes going out of focus as he thinks about Dean, “and he’s so dumb, Anna. Such a beautiful, dumb idiot. I winked and smiled at him and he looked at me like I was a sphinx trying to riddle at him. He’s simply adorable. And he smells like cheeseburgers and apple pie. It’s like the gods molded him just for me.”

Anna shakes her head, a laugh bubbling from her throat at his, admittedly, dopey smile, “Well, I hear he’s in the hospital today,” she begins lightly, resulting in Castiel jerking up to maximum levels of alert and eager like a trained dog, “Charlie saw him sitting over in Maple .”

“Gosh, Anna, would you look at the time? My break just began,” and he’s gone, speed walking down the hallway, ignoring Anna’s laughter and the thumping coming from the janitor’s closet. Fucking doctor Palmer.

---

The third time he sees Dean Winchester it’s a beautiful Monday afternoon. The sun from the massive windows is shining into the waiting room, illuminating the younger man like the seraphs of heaven themselves were shining a beacon on him. He also looked more tired than Castiel had ever seen him. His usual clothes were swapped for plaid pajama pants and a loose red hoodie that looked probably as old as Dean himself was. He sits curled up in one of the oversized chairs, chin propped on his hand and watching something on a laptop, a pair of black earbuds sitting delicately in his shapely ears. It’s vaguely reminiscent of a scruffy red riding hood.

Would that make him the wolf? Or the woodsman?

Hmm.

Castiel walks up behind him quietly, peering over his shoulder. He blinks as he watches William Shatner talk silently on screen, subtitles playing on the bottom as images of renaissance angel paintings flash in the background. The title ‘Angels Among Us’ sits just below the youtube icon. His eyes linger on a yellow icon in the corner of the video. Is he watching a National Geographics video on angels from the 80s ?

ANGEL MATING HABITS, the subtitles read, INCLUDE THE PASSING OF CONSECRATED COMMUNION WAFERS. BEFORE THE TIME OF REVELATIONS, CHURCHES ACROSS EUROPE THOUGHT IT DIVINE INTERVENTION WHEN STORES OF WAFERS VANISHED.  

Was this thing serious?

Who the fuck told them that?

IN HIS WORK, ‘ANGELS AMONG US: MESSENGERS OF THE GODS’ ERICH VON DANIKEN, AUTHOR OF ‘CHARIOT OF THE GODS’--

It takes everything Castiel has in him to not wheeze out a laugh. The guy from Ancient Aliens? That’s who they were quoting for this documentary? Seriously? Oh no.

- -SCUSSES THE POTENTIAL LINK BETWEEN EXTRATERRESTRIALS AND ANGELS. LINKING HIS STUDIES ON THE BOOK OF ENOCH AND THE PICTOGRAPHS OF ANCIENT CAVE PAINTINGS, VON DANIKEN PUTS FORTH THAT A COMMON COURTING ACT OF ANCIENT ANGELS WAS THE EXCHANGE OF HUMAN SLAVES USED TO MINE GOLD .-- William Shatner is replaced by the image of a white man with a poor haircut, a pipe, and a stack of his own books in the background.

Ok, no, Castiel can’t let this go on.

Gathering himself he leans down, gently taking one of the buds out and whispering into his ear, “Hello, Dean.”

“HOLY FUCK!” Dean jumps, nearly knocking the laptop off his knees and coming extremely close to elbowing Castiel in the nose.

“Not holy, actually. No more so than any other creature,” Castiel chuckles, tilting his head to the side as he takes a careful step to the side to save himself from flailing limbs. Scowling, Dean presses a hand over his chest.

“Dude, you need a fucking bell,” he grouses, quickly closing the laptop and giving Castiel a scathing look.

“My apologies,” Castiel sits himself in the chair next to him, crossing his legs at the knee with an easy smile, “though you know, if you require information on angels, you need only ask.”

Dean’s face goes a fetching shade of red and Castiel could just gobble him up, “Whatever. Figured William Shatner was probably a better source than Hoot to Foot, an Owl Docuseries. Animal Planet is the shit, but probably not relevant here.”

Castiel blinks slowly, “...Owl… Docuseries.”

Dean shrugs, fiddling with the ties of his hoodie, “Whatever man. Owls, angels, you both have wings.”

“...You’re an idiot,” Castiel gazes at him with open adoration. What would it be like to kiss him in the moonlight?

“Fuck you, dude!”

God he was beautiful. 

“What are you doing here, by the way? Did something happen to Sam?” He gestures to the Maple Lounge sign.

Dean deflates almost immediately, shaking his head and rubbing his hand against his face, “...No. Dad’s back there.”

Dad? Wasn’t the Winchester patriarch dead?

His confusion must show on his face because Dean looks off to the side, his hand snaking to the back of his neck, “...Yea, I mean, maybe it was a bit of a stretch when Sam said our folks were dead. Mom is. Dad’s just a dick. But apparently he hasn’t changed his emergency contact in the last six years, so here I am.”

“I’m sorry--”

“I’m not,” Dean interrupts with a harsh scowl, “dumb ass deserves it. Who the hell tries to fight someone in a fucking Walmart?”

God, maybe Castiel is the stupid one, as much as he’s blinking, “Beg your pardon?”

Dean glances at him, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. A motion Castiel would normally find very appealing if it wasn’t for the anxious sheen of Dean’s lovely, verdant eyes, “...Dad’s a Hunter. Men of Letters, sure you heard of ‘em?”

Castiel jerks back, eyebrows shooting up his forehead. Of course he’s heard about the Men of Letters. Everyone has heard of the Men of Letters. A fraternity of creature hunting families that used less than legal means of dealing with dangerous beings. According to  them ‘dangerous beings’ were every single one, obviously. Which was why it was declared a damned domestic terrorist group in America and most of the civilized world, “But your brother is a witch?”

“No shit, doc,” Dean shoves his laptop in a messenger bag full of worn patches; the kind you put on because of age, not questionable style choices. He takes a minute to arrange the stuff in his bag and Castiel doesn’t push, letting him take his time instead. Castiel had all the time in the world for Dean. Eventually he grumbles, “That's why we haven’t seen him in like, six damn years.”

“Right,” Castiel relaxes a little. Ok, so Dean probably didn’t hold the same violent leanings and wouldn’t try to kill him in his sleep, “so he picked a fight in a Walmart?”

“Yea… Dad’s the last of the Men of Letters in America, right? Government pretty much shut the whole thing down over here but he just refuses to stop, man. I don’t think he really gives a shit about being a legacy or anything, he just fucking hates creatures and magic,” he shakes his head, lips pressing into a thin line as he glances over, “The guy that set our house on fire was a demon. He was working there, manning the self check at Walmart. Apparently arson and murder will only get you ten years with good behavior. Guess dad thought Azazel needed a more permanent solution than the judge and jury did.”

“...That’s… um…”

“Insane? No fucking shit. Now I gotta sit here while he’s getting blood transfusions because a fucking werewolf jumped in the brawl and dad got his dumb ass gutted.”

Castiel watches him for a moment, taking in his pale skin and the dark circles under his eyes. His poor, beautiful boy. Careful to not spook him he reaches out and gently lays his hand over Dean’s, letting his fingers run over the faint freckles on his knuckles, “I’m still sorry. This must be painful for you.”

Dean’s green eyes track the motion of his fingers but he makes no move to take his hand away. Castiel will count that as a win. His face twists into a wry smirk as he meets Castiel’s eyes, “He’d be pissed, Azazel was just discharged. Barely even a scratch.” 

Despite the heavy atmosphere Castiel can’t stop the bark of laughter, “Wait until he finds out the group working Maple isn’t human.”

Absolute delight spreads over Dean’s face, lighting up his face, “Hell yea.”

Castiel’s heart stops for just a moment before jump-starting itself with a wild flutter. The man before him was beautiful normally, even with his scowls and petulant scoffing. But when he smiled? It was like looking too closely at the sun. Like Castiel’s eyes might burn themselves out of their sockets; like Dean was the biblical angel of yore, and Castiel himself a common supplicant of divine intervention. The words tumble themselves out of his mouth before he can stop them, “Would you like to go to the cafeteria with me?”

It’s Dean’s turn to blink at him in surprise. Slowly he pulls his bag onto his lap as a nervous smile spreads on his beautiful, kissable lips, “So you weren’t actually trying to fight me?”

“...Pardon?”

“Fuck it, I’ll explain later. Come o--Oh my god, is that Doctor Palmer? Holy shit his boots look fucking good .”

Fucking. Doctor. Palmer. Castiel shoots the man a vicious scowl. God damn he hated that guy. But maybe he was onto something with the boots if Dean’s going to drool over them like that.

---

Fifteen minutes later, he and Dean sit in the cafeteria, eating and drinking overpriced cheeseburgers and coffee from the lunchline. He had just barely stopped Dean from getting the soup. Never, ever have the soup.

“You thought I wanted to fight you?” he grins as he takes a sip of his coffee, delighting in the embarrassed smile Dean gives him in reply.

“Yea man. I had just watched this special on Animal Planet about owls, right? And they puff themselves up when they’re trying to scare things and shit. Like they get huge, it’s fucking terrifying. And here I was, minding my own fucking business, when this dude at the hospital just suddenly puffs his wings up at me. And I’m like,’Holy Fuck, he’s going to take me out back and beat the fuck out of me.’ Apparently owl documentaries aren’t a good source for angel shit.”

He lets his eyes drag over Dean slowly, making sure the younger man sees exactly what he’s doing before he purrs out, low and quiet enough that only Dean can hear, “I assure you, Dean. I would certainly put the fuck back into you.”

His beautiful idiot was in the middle of chewing a bite of burger and Castiel feels a sense of smug, devious pride when he abruptly chokes. He flashes him a toothy, flirty grin as Dean scowls at him. It’s a lovely scowl, scrunching Dean’s face up so prettily it makes Castiel want to run his tongue across the wrinkles in his brow.

“Asshole.”

Unable to help himself he reaches out, tips Dean’s chin up to look him in the eyes. Dean’s go slightly wider when their gazes meet across the table. The red in his cheeks brighten to almost the color of his hoodie and Castiel takes that as a very good sign, letting his voice go a few shades darker as he raises a single eyebrow, “You should show me some respect.”

The choked off moan Dean makes is absolutely worth it.

“Go on a date with me, Dean,” Castiel demands more than asks as he lets his chin go, leaning back casually in his chair. He sips his inferior cafeteria coffee while he enjoys watching Dean squirm.

“Okay,” Dean manages to squeak out after a few false starts, face flaming when Castiel slides his foot up Dean’s ankle under his pajama pants.

“Wonderful. Are you busy tonight?”

“Um… I, tonight?” Oh, what an adorable, bumbling dear. The embarrassed, nervous napkin peeling just makes Castiel want to tease him mercilessly. Eat him whole. Wrap him up in his own clothes and do unspeakable, unholy things to him. No man had any right to be so absolutely perfect. What would he look like laid out on Castiel’s bed, flushed and bare? A treat for the eyes and tongue for certain, a thought that makes Castiel’s eyes go half lidden. Abruptly a pink tongue darts out of Dean’s mouth to lick nervous lips and the motion catches his eyes immediately. Oh, he was going to suck the hell out of that tongue.

“Yes, Dean, tonight,” He reaches over, grabbing a fry from Dean’s plate and perhaps a little more lewdly than necessary (okay, a lot more lewdly than necessary) draws it into his mouth.

He watches in amusement as Dean fumbles his phone out of his pocket, blindly thumbing out a text message as he stares at him with wide eyes, “Not busy anymore.”

“Perfect. I’ll pick you up after my shift. Give me your phone,” he holds out his hand expectantly and without thinking, Dean immediately passes it over. As he enters his information he wonders if Dean is as quick to follow orders in all aspects of his life. Particularly in bed. Number added, he passes the phone back, “Text me your address and I’ll be there at six.”

Dean nods, still looking a little shell shocked as he types out his address, sending it to Castiel with a little ding , “Yea, ok, six sounds good. Real good. Um. I’ll put some real pants on.”

The lovely man didn’t need pants at all as far as Castiel was concerned, but the restaurant he planned on taking him to would probably disagree, “Casual is fine. I know a wonderful burger joint. Fantastic local brews too.”

Having to wear pants is definitely worth the way Dean’s face lights up at the mention of good burgers and beer. Not that its hard to get burgers better than the hospital’s, “Fuck yea. You feed me burgers, man, and you can take me out whenever you fucking want.”

“They have delicious pie, too,” Castiel adds in a low purr with a wink, “though I might want something else for--”

“What the fuck would be better than pie for dessert? Pie is the fucking best, man!” Dean almost sounds offended by the very idea.

… What an idiot. God I want to rip his clothes off and kiss his stupid face , Castiel thinks wildly, heart aflutter. Castiel definitely felt like a wolf at that moment. A ravenous, starving wolf who’s appetite would only be sated by a beautiful moron.

Chapter Text

If Dean never saw his dad again, it would be too soon. The curmudgeonly old man is sitting in his hospital bed, batting away the selkie nurse, slurs spat out like it’s going out of style. Which yea, considering it’s the 21st fucking century, they definitely were. For her part, the selkie just smiles pleasantly, replacing the IV bag before leaving. The look of sympathy she passes him on the way out feels out of place. He’s not the one getting called a glorified fur coat.

“Seriously, John? She’s just doing her job, man,” he flops down in the chair next to the bed.

“Don’t need a freak monster poisoning me,” John retorts, glaring out the door as if waiting for her to come back and do something evil to him.

“Fuck, John, she’s not going to poison you. She’s a damn nurse!”

“Don’t talk to me that way, boy, I’m still your father--” his father turns his rage towards him, and Dean can tell by the blood shot eyes that John was either still partially drunk or at least nursing a hangover. Was he ever not drunk? Probably not. The only friend John Winchester had was a fucking whiskey bottle.

“You ain’t shit to me. I’m only here because the hospital practically begged me to come drive your drunk, dumbass home.”

John’s face twists into a scowl, eyes narrowing and Dean can already hear the rant coming, “Where the hell did I go wrong with you, boy,” and yep, there it is, “I didn’t raise you to be a disrespectful monster sympathiser.”

“You didn’t raise me at all!” Dean stands abruptly, so fast he nearly knocks the floral seated chair over, “You didn’t do shit for me or Sammy. Nothing but drink us into fucking debt.”

“That boy is just as much a monster as his mother--”

“You have no right,” he snarls, leaning over the man’s prone form and for once in his life he feels bigger than John Winchester as he grips the front of his cheap, cotton hospital gown. Fire boils in his veins, sizzling under his skin. Dean’s always been angry, a rabid beast stuck in too small a meatsuit trying to claw its way out into the light. But he has never wanted to hurt anyone so much in his life, the violence lurking beneath the surface practically begs to be let out, “to talk any kind of shit about Sammy or mom.”

His father goes still in his hands and Dean catches the sharp spark of fear in his normally empty, soulless brown eyes. It takes all of Dean’s willpower to uncurl his fingers and shove him back against the bed. He grabs his jacket and shoves his arms into the sleeves, eyes never leaving his trembling father, “Lose my number and call a damn Uber.”

On his way home, he stops at Bed Bath and Beyond.

---

He slams the door to the studio apartment louder than he needs to, letting the last of his bubbling anger fizzle out with the rattling hinges. Sam looks up with a startle from where he’s doing homework at the tiny kitchen table, eyebrows raised as Dean drops his package by the front door, “What did the door do to you?”

Dean just shakes his head as he goes to the fridge, pulling out a beer, “S’nothing, Sammy.”

“Right. Breaking the apartment is normal for you.”

Dean flips him a casual middle finger as he goes to dig through his laundry basket. That catches Sam’s attention and the nosey little bastard cranes his neck to see what he’s doing, “It’s nearly five, why are you changing?”

“What, a guy can’t want to sit around in jeans instead of pajamas?”

Sam’s getting way too good at that unimpressed eyebrow, “A guy? Sure. You? Dean, you would live in that ugly robe you got at GoodWill and we both know it.”

“Hey, my dead guy robe is comfortable as fuck.”

“I’m sure it is, but that doesn’t change the fact that you never--oh my god, is that your good flannel ?” Sam nearly flips the table in his haste to scamper over to where Dean is holding up his nice blue plaid, “Are you going on a date? Is it with Doctor Novak?”

Dean eyes his brother critically, “Dude, you’re practically vibrating, chill the fuck out.”

“It is, isn’t it!” and God he feels like he needs some damn sunglasses with how brightly Sam is smiling, “That’s wonderful, Dean! Charlie says Castiel would be perfect for you! Where are you going? Are you going to come home tonight? Is he coming to get you? Are--”

“Dude,” Dean holds up his hand, silencing the string of questions, “breathe, man. We’re just going for burgers and beer. We’re not getting fucking married or something. And what the hell are you doing, talking to Charlie about me and Cas?”

Sam doesn’t even have the grace to look guilty, smug bastard, “Well, I told her about that love spell when we checked in. And then when we were waiting for Castiel on Friday, we just got to talking, and she mentioned Castiel was single, ‘ very single and ready to mingle’ is how she put it, actually.”

“God…” Dean mutters to himself as Sam continues on, blithely ignoring Dean’s grumping.

“And I might have mentioned you were also very single and ready to mingle, too, and--”

“So, what, she just decided to hook him up with the first single loser she found?”

“No! It’s not like that, Dean. She said he’s been talking about you a lot,” and Dean’s not sure how he feels about that, considering he thought the guy wanted to murder him for like a week. And still isn’t one hundo percent sure this isn’t some ploy to get him alone in an alley to murder him, “ pining, she said.”

Dean squawks in protest as Sam shoves him out of the way and roots through the basket of clean clothes himself, “Wear your good jeans for God’s sake, Dean! Don’t wear the ones full of grease.”

“But those are my comfortable pants!” he pouts as Sam smacks him in the face with a pair of dark denims, “...fine.”

“And brush your hair!”

“Ok, Samantha.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

---

An hour later, Dean checks himself in the dingy bathroom mirror for the fourth time. Not that he’s nervous, obviously. He’s not some chick. He just wants to, you know, look nice. Or whatever. But he does ruffle his hair again just a little to make sure it’s the proper amount of fucked looking and not fucked looking. The good kind of fucked only.

As he comes out of the bathroom he checks his phone, absolutely no butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Ten minutes. 

Just as he thinks that, the ding of an incoming next message nearly makes him jump out of his skin. He opens the message from Doctor Castiel Novak. Briefly, he wonders if he’s gotten some automated message from the hospital, what with all the proper sentence structure and punctuation in his face.

I apologize profusely. It appears I will be here for another 45 minutes. Director Crowley has ordered a mandatory meeting on sexual harassment in the workplace and is 30 minutes in to laying into Doctor Palmer.

The text is immediately followed by a stealthily taken selfie of Castiel raising a single, smug eyebrow while a man in a black suit (Crowley, probably) screams in the face of Doctor Sexy Boots in the background. Another ding heralds the arrival of a second message. 

He might get fired. It’s delightful.

Dean can’t help but bark out a laugh and steadfastly ignores Sam’s curious eyes as he replies.

No prob doc

C u then yea

?

Give you time to get outta them ugly ass guinea pig pajamas

He watches the little dots appear and disappear on his screen for a few seconds before a message finally pops up.

Dean. If you wanted me out of my clothes all you had to do was ask. ;)

Quick enough to give himself whiplash he stands and turns his back to Sam so his brother wouldn’t see how fucking red his face was. Holy shit. He feels a little hotter under the collar than he had a few minutes ago and lies to himself that it was definitely just the shitty AC in their crackerbox not working.

Shdn’t u be listening to the meeting cas

It takes another ten minutes for Castiel to message again, and this time, the picture comes first. And okay he’s definitely catching flies with how far his jaw is dropped, because there’s the doc, half naked. His cartoon scrubs are gone and replaced by a smart white button down that has yet to be buttoned. And a pair of black trousers slung low on his hips, anchored with a black leather belt. His eyes zero in on the hint of a treasure trail and the strip of tanned skin and--oh. Holy shit oh fuck.

Tattoos.

Black fucking tattoos holy shit he was going to die, he was going to drool until he died of dehydration. Because the doctor was hiding a ton of tattoos under those dumb ass scrubs and he’d never be able to think of anything else ever again. He’s embarrassingly relieved that the doctor looks otherwise normal; doesn’t have rippling muscles or an eight pack or something ridiculous. Has a physique that sort of matches Dean’s own. A body born from hatred of exercise and love of cheeseburgers. But also maybe that’s not a good thing, because now he’s imagining his lips pressing into the soft flesh of that tanned stomach. He barely manages to reply with a short holy shit Cas before he gets the ding of the follow up text.

He didn’t get fired, unfortunately. But he did get suspended! I’ll see you soon, Dean. I hope you’re as hungry as I am.

Dean can’t string together any rational thought so he just sends a thumbs up emoji and tries to pull his tongue back into his mouth from where it fell on the damn floor.

---

Castiel finally arrives half an hour later and Sam manages to beat Dean to the door, practically leaping over the couch to swing it open.

“Doctor Novak!” the traitorous little teenage punk chirps brightly as Dean slinks up next to him, trying valiantly to not ogle the suited doctor (and failing miserably) as he adjusts the sleeves of his flannel. Suddenly even his good flannel feels woefully inadequate. Even though he’s left the suit jacket undone and the tie loose and casual, Castiel looks like something out of a damn GQ magazine. Or Time’s Most Eligible Bachelor of the 21st Century. Or Cosmopolitans #1 Top Hottie.

“Good evening, Sam,” Castiel smiles as his eyes take in their tiny apartment, lingering on the pullout couch and the mini kitchenette shoved in the corner of the living space. He turns his attention back to the brothers quick enough, no hint of judgement as he shakes Sam’s hand, “Thank you for allowing me to steal Dean for the night. I promise to return him safely.”

“Of course,” Sam sounds way too serious as he nods. Oh no. Dean looks up at the ceiling with a why me? when Sam squares his shoulders and frowns, “just make sure he’s back before he turns into a pumpkin. And you better not do anything untoward , either. Hurt my brother and I will curse you.”

“I assure you my intentions are nothing but noble and honorable.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Dean huffs as he elbows his damn kid brother out of the way to leave the room before this turns any more mortifying, snagging the bag by the door as he goes. Castiel eyes it curiously but makes no comment, “I’ll be back in a few hours. Make sure to do your homework and study. You have that chemistry test tomorrow.”

Sam’s face softens into a fond smile, “Have fun, Dean.”

“Yea, yea,” he knows his cheeks are an embarrassed pink as Castiel leads him out with a hand on the small of his back but there’s really nothing to be done about that. Still, he sneaks a peek at Castiel’s profile out of the corner of his eye and feels his heart flutter. Bastard was way too hot.

When they get out into the parking lot Castiel opens the passenger side door of the most ugly car Dean has ever seen. Trying not to laugh as he slides in, he turns and raises an eyebrow as Castiel rounds the car to the other side, “Didn’t seem the type to own a pimpmobile , Cas.”

“A pimpmobile?” Castiel cocks his head to the side as he turns the ignition. Despite Dean’s teasing, he sounds amused as he backs out of the parking space, one arm slung over the seat behind Dean’s shoulder, “I’m not sure if that is meant to be insulting or not, Dean.”

“I figured the cartoon pajamas were the only embarrassing thing you owned,” he can’t help but grin as he settles into the seat. It was admittedly pretty comfortable and as roomy as his own Baby, but god above it was hideous.

“What’s wrong with my scrubs?” 

“Cas. They’re cartoon bees and guinea pigs.”

“I like bees and guinea pigs,” Castiel shrugs, unbothered, and the amount of confidence it takes to admit that is pretty hot.

Fuck, Dean is screwed.

---

Their date ends up being at a 24/7 bar and grill called Crossroads , just outside of town on a gravel road . Blessedly, Dean feels a lot less underdressed when they head into the atmospheric bar, and he’s immediately appreciative of the classic rock playing low over the speakers. Castiel guides him to a worn but comfortable booth in the corner away from other patrons, an assortment of truckers and bikers and drunk old men, and Dean takes a moment to soak everything in as he fiddles with his gift bag.

“Hellhound and Black Eyes are both very good.”

Dean snaps his attention back to Castiel who’s already plucked a menu from where it was tucked next to the salt and pepper shakers, “The what?”

“Local brews,” Castiel motions to the back of the menu as he passes it to Dean, grabbing a second for himself. It’s a weirdly gentlemanly action and Dean resists the urge to swoon as he checks out the list of beer, “Wouldn’t recommend The Cage unless you like drinking dishwater.”

The waitress arrives a second later, dressed all in black, and she might be an actual demon, which seems a little on the nose, but whatever. She also looks startlingly like his mother, which throws him for all kinds of loops for half a second, “Hi, I’m Eve, I’ll be your waitress tonight. Can I get you boys anything to start?”

“Uh, I’ll have a Hellhound?” Fuck, that wasn’t meant to be a question, but his nerves are shot to hell.

“One for me too, please. Thank you, Eve.”

Oh shit, Castiel’s polite to service workers. He’s going to end up married before the night is over. To distract himself he puts all his attention into browsing the burger selection, each one making his stomach do an intrigued little growl. He settles on The Rack, a monster of a burger topped with onion rings and sets his menu off to the side.

“You seem nervous, Dean,” Castiel’s rough baritone washes over him and Dean forces himself to look up. Half lidded blue eyes are staring at him so intently he worries he might catch fire. Or get eaten. Probably eaten. But there’s a pleasant smile on the angel’s face and his wings are relaxed, draped around his shoulders and vanishing under the table. No threatening puffing at all. 

“Yea, well, I’m still not convinced you’re not trying to lure me into a false sense of security.”

“Not to worry Dean, I only have the most pleasant things in mind for any sense of false security you may have. I assure you that you’ll enjoy all of them.”

“I-- you--I mean, I didn’t-- fuck ,” Dean sputters, abruptly shoving the gift bag in Castiel’s general direction as he ducks his head, face going red enough to rival a tomato, “Shut up. This is for you.”

“Oh! Dean, you didn’t have to bring me anything. This is very sweet of you,” Castiel sounds so awed and appreciative, way more than any of his previous partners ever had over anything Dean had ever gotten them, and he hasn’t even looked in the damn bag yet. When he does he cocks his head to the side, pulling out a small bee-patterned lap blanket, “Oh!” and he sounds delighted , thank fuck, “This is wonderful!”

Eve stops back at their table to drop off their beer and take their order and Dean is so, so relieved to have a chance to get his blushing under control. She glances curiously at the blanket with twinkling eyes but thank god doesn’t say anything. After she leaves, Dean clears his throat and says with a casualness he doesn’t feel, “Normally I’d go with flowers, but uh, that documentary I was watching said that angels like to uh, give fluffy things to line nests with for, uh, date shit? And it, uh, had bees?” 

Fucking smooth.

“...Nests…?” Castiel’s eyebrows furrow briefly in confusion before they raise, the force of his laugh making the beer on the table shake, “Dean, my sweet dumb boy, angels don’t sleep in nests. We don’t do anything with nests. We sleep in beds just like anyone else.”

A familiar sense of offended, righteous fury bubbles up Dean’s throat and he can’t stop the words spilling out of his mouth, “Fuck you man, just because I’m a drop out doesn’t mean I’m fucking stupid .”

The silence at their table is deafening in its intensity as Castiel stares at him, lips parted in surprise, “What? Oh! Oh, no, Dean, no I didn’t mean it like that,” and Castiel is practically falling over himself to take his hands, eyes wide and earnest, “I don’t mean to imply that you aren’t intelligent, Dean. I simply mean you’re… How to say this… I find your bright aura and innocence absolutely enchanting. It’s with only the greatest of fondness that I call you dumb.”

That’s not much different than being called a fucking idiot, but he supposed it’s… slightly better. Dean’s still pissed about it, because who wants to be called stupid, but Castiel’s eyes are so adoring and sweet that he feels all his rage draining out of him.

“Alright, whatever, calm down, Feathers.”

Castiel’s smile practically lights up the room and Dean finds himself smiling back, a blush rising to his cheeks.

It ends up being one of the best dates Dean has ever had. Conversation with Castiel just flows despite their obvious differences--age and species being the most obvious. But the older man is quick as a whip and Dean finds him utterly fascinating to watch. His eyes are more open and expressive than any human he’s ever met, seemingly just as animated as his hands when he talks. It's an odd thing to watch, the ebb and flow of the bright glow, the shades shifting from bright crystal to brilliant sapphire like a blue mood ring right in his eye socket. 

The thing Dean likes the most, though, is that Castiel listens . And not just the kind of listening people do while they’re waiting for their own turn to talk. It’s with rapt attention and fascination, hanging off his every word and laughing brightly at his jokes. He feels seen in a way that makes butterflies flutter in his stomach. They’re still talking when they arrive at his front door three hours later, just before midnight. 

And suddenly he’s looking slightly down at Castiel, their conversation drifting off to a companionable silence. Nerves bubble up slowly and he’s reminded of his first date in middle school, desperately hoping for a kiss but too damn shy and awkward to do anything about it. 

Luckily for him Castiel doesn’t seem to have any such hangup. 

He steps up into Dean’s personal space, his wings shifting to loosely wrap around them, brushing against Dean’s calves. His eyes are a dark, intense ocean blue as he takes Dean’s face in his hands. And Castiel is leaning forward, eyes lingering on Dean’s lips, and he’s so close that Dean can see each fleck of silver in his hair.

“I’d like to kiss you, Dean, if I may?” Castiel’s sweet breath brushes against his lips and Dean’s knees nearly buckle.

“Fuck yea,” Dean blurts, the exact opposite of the sensual mood lingering in the air between them.

But Castiel doesn’t seem to mind, closing the distance between them and capturing his mouth in a deep kiss that has Dean’s brain short circuiting. The kiss ends much too quickly for Dean; when Castiel pulls away, he chases after him with a plaintive whine that Castiel answers with a wolfish, delighted grin.

“I’ll text you tomorrow, Dean.”

And he can only nod dumbly as Castiel walks away after one more quick brush of their lips.

Holy fucking shit. He might be a little in love.

---

In the morning Dean wakes up as a fucking pumpkin.

SAM WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?

Of course, being a pumpkin he can’t actually talk . But he can, for some reason, roll himself over into the only bedroom where his asshole witch of a brother is sleeping and slam his pumpkiny self into the boxspring until Sam finally wakes up.

“...Hmm…?” Sam yawns as he sits up, looking around groggily, “Dean…? What’s going--” he stops as soon as his eyes land on the vibrating pumpkin on the floor shaking a leaf at him like the world’s strangest middle finger, “Oh shit. I definitely didn’t mean to actually turn you into a pumpkin! I swear!”

Oh shit in-fucking-deed.

And so after the best date of Dean’s entire fucking life he finds himself as an orange fucking squash held in his brother’s hands at the Grimm Ward in Seattle Mercy Hospital. He’s vibrating in rage so hard the seeds in his shell are shaking loose as they check in and wait for the doctor on schedule.

Which definitely shouldn’t be Castiel, since it’s only Tuesday, but for some reason fucking is . 

“...You know, Sam,” Castiel says conversationally as he closes the door, clipboard in hand, and doesn’t he sound just fucking delighted at Dean’s plight, “I’m sure I returned him before midnight.”

“I know, I’m not sure what happened. I didn’t even cast any spells this time!”

Fucking Witches, Dean thinks grumpily as he feels and somehow sees himself get picked up and inspected by Castiel. He’s not sure how he’s seeing anything since he has no actual eyes. Or ears.

“When did he turn?”

“Not sure, we both went to bed around eleven. So sometime after that?”

No shit, Sammy.

“Hmm. I’d wager a guess around midnight,” Castiel sets his fingers against Dean’s stem and sends out a small amount of grace. Fuck, is his stem like his dick??? Is Castiel groping him right now??? Fuck if he knows. But it feels warm and tingly and kind of nice so whatever, he’ll allow it, “I feel a little bit of a lingering curse. It seems this is the  Bippity Boppity part of the spell. Come midnight he should revert to normal. If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep him with me for monitoring. The magic lingering in his flesh is very faint and I have to admit I’m not a hundred percent sure that it won’t fade. If it does start we’ll need to admit him to the Curse Breakers right away.”

Oh shit.

Was he going to get stuck as a fucking pumpkin?

“Dean could get stuck as a pumpkin?!”

“It’s just a measure of extra precaution, I’m sure he’ll be absolutely fine. Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to him.”

Sam, and honestly Dean, relax at the reassurance.

And so it’s with a happy whistle and a skip in Castiel’s step that Dean is whisked away and tucked under his arm the entire day.

Chapter Text

Castiel grins as he sits down next to Anna at the nurse’s station, holding his Pumpkin, and isn’t that a nickname Castiel is going to love. He can already imagine his lovely Dean going all red in the face with adorable indignation. Said pumpkin shakes, the little bit of twisting vine and leaves shifting in a way that’s almost suspicious. 

“Don’t worry, Dean, I’ll take good care of you,” he purrs, flicking the tip of a leaf with his finger. The pumpkin rattles even more and he laughs in delight as Anna whips around on him, eyebrows raised as she looks around.

“Where is Dean, anyway? I didn’t see him leave with Sam…” her gaze lingers on the beautiful orange squash. 

Even as a vegetable Dean was beautiful. Clear, bright orange ring dotted with the faintest of green speckles. Like little pumpkin freckles. He holds Dean aloft and turns to Anna, presenting his little boyfriend, “He’s right here, Anna.”

She squeaks in glee, leaning forward and poking the pumpkin which of course leads to a swat of vine against her hand, “Oh my! How adorable! What happened?”

“Sam cursed him accidentally,” Castiel gently places Dean down, absentmindedly petting his shell, “which is actually rather impressive. I had picked Dean up for a date--”

“Um, excuse me, did I hear the word date over here?” Like a buzzard descending onto a carcass in the desert or a bloodhound to gossip Charlie swoops in, slapping her hands on the counter, “why did I not hear about this?! Also, what’s with the pumpkin, it’s not halloween. Not that every day shouldn’t be halloween.”

“Oh, that’s Dean.”

“Oh, ok, cool. So anyway, this date?” Charlie pulls over a chair and shoves Castiel out of her way to make room for herself behind the counter.

“Yes, more about that, please,” Anna agrees excitedly.

The two women stare at him expectantly despite the subject of their gossip being literally right there on the desk. Castiel doesn’t mind though, he has no shame, “I had a chat with Dean while he was over in Maple yesterday--”

“Why were you in Maple ,” Charlie asks Dean (who has now become an even darker shade of orange that makes his green freckles pop) and when no answer is forthcoming she turns back to Cas, “why was he in Maple?”

“You’ll have to ask him that when he turns back at midnight. Oh, actually no, ask him tomorrow. We might be busy at midnight,” he leers down at Dean with a salacious grin, to which Dean replies with a vine and leaf gesture that looks rude, like some kind of plant-based profanity. How delightful! What a clever little pumpkin his Pumpkin is. 

Anna giggles behind her hand but Charlie doesn’t even bother to hide her mirth, just throws her head back and cackles in delight. After a moment of merriment at the expense of the elder Winchester, Anna motions for Castiel to continue, “Ok, so this date.”

“Right, yes, we stopped by the cafeteria and I asked him to go out with me last night,” Castiel props his chin on his hand, smiling fondly down at Dean, “he was simply adorable. The prettiest blush I’ve ever--Ouch!” Castiel shakes out his hand, his fingers stinging from where Dean had abruptly slammed himself against his knuckles. Wow, Dean could really throw that weight around. He pats the pumpkin happily, “See how cute he is? Little spitfire.”

“Aww are you shhhhyyyyy, Dean,” Charlie sings brightly, reaching out and rolling Dean around.

Anna took a little pity on Dean’s plight, “Oh, don’t bully the poor boy!” but she was still grinning and clearly enjoying herself, so Castiel doubted she really minded.

“He is pretty easily flustered,” he chuckles, “but we ended up going to the Crossroads.”

“Oh! I love that place! Their hard ciders are delicious,” Anna pauses as Director Crowley approaches them, brandishing a stack of papers. Anna sighs, looking longingly at her gossip buddies but eventually spins to face their irate director.

“So, anyway, this daaaaaate?” Charlie asks, ignoring Crowley as he bitches behind them about incomplete files and forms that were probably from Doctor Palmer.

God, Castiel hated that guy.

“The date was wonderful. We had some burgers and beer and chatted for… oh, I’d say a good two hours? Maybe more,” he brushes his fingers sweetly over Dean’s freckles, his heart warming as he remembers Dean’s lovely flushes and stammers and his heavenly laugh, “he brought me a lap blanket, I had an amazing time. I look forward to our second date.”

“A blanket?” Charlie asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Apparently it was something he heard on an angel documentary.”

“Oh man those things are always such bullshit!” 

He can practically feel the embarrassment radiating off of his precious Pumpkin and offers him a tender smile. The orange of the pumpkin goes a lovely deep, rustic orange in places and Castiel gets the impression he’s blushing

“YOU BASTARD DOCTOR SMITH! YOU RUINED MY LIFE!” Suddenly a gunshot rang out through the halls. All four of them briefly turned towards the noise. Crowley throws his hands up in a raging huff, papers scattering all over the floor as he storms away.

“Oh dear. That’s what, the fourth doctor that got shot this month?” Anna pulls over her calendar, “and it’s only the 14th!”

“Wasn’t Doctor Palmer shot last week?” Charlie asks, tipping her head in thought, “I vaguely remember his estranged cousin-clone turning up and trying to single white female him.”

“That was last month,” Castiel corrects, “It was a blissfully clean and quiet week while he was gone.”

---

After a long day Castiel sets Dean down on the bench of the locker room. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to get the kinks out. Surgeries for Chimera were his least favorite. Normally he loved doing surgeries,cutting things open, finding where someone was broken and fixing them. But Chimera? A nurse always ended up putting something in the wrong place and he’d have to remove it and start over again.

It feels good to finally sit , too, even if the bench wasn’t the most comfortable thing. The chance to get off his aching feet hadn’t come in the last six hours until finally, finally his shift was over. And he’s not ashamed to admit he practically sprinted down the hall when he spotted Director Crowley prowling the ward.

He was not going to get stuck doing a double. No fucking thank you.

A shiver of orange catches his attention when he’s in the middle of pulling off his scrubs. Pumpkin-Dean is wobbling side to side, leaf held in front of the stem like he’s trying to hide behind his fingers, “Dean,” he teases playfully as he slows his stripping, “Are you trying to peek?” 

The vine and leaf jerk back and forth in an approximation of ‘ no!’ but Castiel just gives him a toothy grin, tossing the shirt carelessly into his bag with a wink, “You can look as much as you like, Pumpkin.”

If there was a face cut out of that pumpkin it would be spitting seeds, Castiel was sure. 

But there’s not, so he ignores the flailing of squashy rage. Instead he stretches out his back and wings with a long groan. Keeping his eyes trained on the pumpkin he runs his hands lightly up his chest, letting his nails scratch over the patterns of ink. They slide higher to their true purpose: massaging the ache out of the sides of his neck. It is partly to show off , of course , and has the desired effect: Dean stops moving entirely, the vine snapping straight and the leaf freezing. But he also does it because he’s so damn sore.

He has to admit he’s a little relieved Dean showed such a promising reaction to his half nakedness. It wasn’t the tattoos he had been worried about, most younger people had a thing for tattoos. But Castiel knows he’s a little softer around the middle now in his almost-forties than he was when he was young and in college. He certainly didn’t have the physique that Palmer did, the bastard. Castiel still had no idea how the man retained a six pack and bulging biceps and deltoids and whatever other muscle when he never exercised and ate worse than Castiel himself did. The only exercise that man ever did was in the bedroom. 

And Castiel tried, he did; for a while at least. But after working such long hours, the last thing he wanted to do was fucking jog, go to the gym, or eat nothing but salads. So he had naturally been a little nervous sending that first pic to Dean, a man fifteen years his junior, who’s normal dating pool probably consisted of hunky Abercrombie models.

…Was Abercrombie even a store anymore?

But Dean had reacted in what Castiel could only imagine was a positive way, what with a reply like holy shit cas . He had practically been able to see Dean’s fluster from here in the hospital.

And now he had a front row seat to Dean’s blushing, even if it was in pumpkin form. Emboldened, he leans forward and whispers against the pumpkin’s shell, “You can touch all you want, too.”

He lays a soft kiss before he stands, shimmying with a slow sway of his hips out of his scrub bottoms. Despite Dean not having any actual eyes he can practically feel him staring at the tattoos curling around his hips and vanishing below his boxers, popping back out again on his thighs. He turns, bending to reach into his locker for his clothes, shifting his wings so they don’t obstruct Dean’s view. When he turns again he doesn’t even bother to hide the growing bulge in the front of his boxers. Why should he? His sweet babygirl (and that was a term of endearment he would never say out loud, because Dean would definitely have a conniption) deserved to see what his interest and desire did to him.

Maybe seeing Castiel hard from his attention would alleviate any lingering concerns he has that Castiel wants to do anything as silly as fight him.

---

They get home just in time for Jeopardy! He sits with pumpkin-Dean on his lap, shifting around and getting himself comfortable with his left over chinese and beer, “I’d offer you one, but you’re a pumpkin, Pumpkin,” he teases as he switches the tv on and tosses the remote to the couch next to him, “I guess I should apologize for the old man shows, but you’d have found out and been subjected to them eventually.”

To his surprise Dean didn’t seem to mind, wobbling about and settling against his stomach with his vine resting curled on his shell.

“You like this show too, Dean?”

He’s pretty sure the forward and back rolling is an affirmation and feels pleasantly surprised, warmth spreading in his chest. An evening spent cuddled up on the couch with his boyfriend eating delicious crap food and watching Alex Trebek sounded absolutely wonderful.

“You really are perfect, aren’t you?”

They spend the evening like that, watching reruns of television shows they’ve both probably seen fifty times and it’s absolutely perfect. It’s so easy to lose track of time like this, and he would have happily spent the entire night just lounging here with Dean, if the man hadn’t suddenly gone from pumpkin to hot, fully human man in a puff of orange glitter and the chime of a Disney-esque tune.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel chuckles as Dean practically leaps off his lap, “I see you’ve turned back into a prince.”

“Fuck you. I can taste pumpkin in my mouth, like its fucking Thanksgving,” Dean makes an adorably disgruntled face as he smooths down his rumpled plaid pajama pants.

Castiel is what one would call an opportunist, so of course he takes the time to let his eyes drink in Dean’s naked chest and stomach. He’s saying something , Castiel is vaguely aware, and hears the words Charlie and Anna but his limited attention span is much better spent on tracing the dusting of freckles that cover Dean’s wonderfully tanned skin.

“Dude, are you even listening?”

He’s so cute when he’s cranky.

Still, Castiel gives him a placating smile, “Would you like something to drink, Dean? Or eat? You must be famished after spending all day as a pumpkin.”

Dean’s face goes through a myriad of emotions that make Castiel’s heart ache a little. Confusion, surprise, suspicion, appreciation. It makes him want to tuck Dean into his bed and wrap him up in all his fine, downy comforters and never let him leave. Take care of him the way true loves are supposed to, the way soul mates are meant to.

And Dean must be his soul mate, he can feel the warm light of their profound bond in the very tips of his wings and the deepest recesses of his heart. The other half of his soul, crafted together at the dawn of time and separated into two wistful vessels.

“I’d, uh, yea. I guess I am.”

He resists the urge to crowd him against the couch and kiss all over his face, but the temptation is incredibly distracting with how bashful he sounds. But Castiel isn’t a man known to totally deny himself, so he does give himself a little treat. A short, gentle kiss that leaves his lips tingling, and before he accidentally does more he swiftly stands, “I’ll be right back, then. Beer?”

“Yea, that’d be great. Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel’s lips curl into a pleased smile at the nickname as he rummages around his fridge for something to bring. His first thought is to bring him some of the fruits and vegetables in his crisper, maybe slices or cubes of the sausage and cheese. It’s a totally selfish idea born from the desire to lay Dean out on his lap and feed him with his own fingers. Dean would look wonderful like that, sprawled out and loose in pleasure, giving off soft sighs when Castiel presses little bites to his lips for the cute, pink tongue to draw into a warm, hot mouth.

Instead he grabs one of the subs he picked up from the corner store for when he can’t even be bothered to use the microwave and a bottle of beer.

“Here, I hope this is sufficient?”

“Hell yea, this is great. Thanks, man.”

He returns to his place on the couch, arm draped over the back of the couch while Dean practically inhales his food. It’s enthralling to watch the sandwich just sort of vanish into Dean’s mouth. Maybe Dean had creature blood after all, he’s only seen something like a Leviathan inhale their dinner like that.

He doesn’t bother considering what it says about him that he finds it oddly arousing. 

To his delight, Dean leans against his side and turns his attention to the TV. His wonderful, sweet boy getting himself comfortable in his space has Castiel cooing in pleasure.

That gets Dean’s attention, “Dude… are you purring?”

“Of course not, Dean, I’m not a cat. I’m cooing, there’s a significant difference.”

Castiel is in heaven. It’s as perfect as he imagined, sitting here with him, and he allows himself the indulgence of carding his fingers through Dean’s hair.

“Uh huh, sure, Feathers.”

Dean’s teasing does absolutely nothing to dampen his mood and he makes sure his boy knows it, turning his half lidded eyes to lock with Dean’s. Slowly he leans forward, pressing their lips together in a languid kiss. It starts sweet and slow, Castiel coaxing Dean’s lips apart with a press of his tongue. Dean matches his speed eagerly, hands moving to rest on Castiel’s chest and fisting the front of his shirt.

He moves from Dean’s lips, laying a trail of kisses across his cheek and to his neck, alternating between little butterfly pecks and wet, open mouthed sucking of flesh. When he reaches his ear he growls out low and hot, tugging the lobe between his teeth, “You bring me great pleasure, Dean.” 

“I, uh, don’t put out on the first date,” Dean breathes heavily, dragging his fingers through Castiel’s hair, his nails scratching just deliciously against his scalp, “But pretty sure this counts as a second date. Third if you count the, um, cafeteria.”

He takes the hint for what it is and doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s up and sweeping Dean into his arms in an instant.

“Hey, man! I’m not a bag of fucking potatoes--” Castiel silences him with a rough kiss, marching off with purpose down the hall. Already his wings are itching at his back, twitching and begging to wrap around the man in his arms. He makes it to his bedroom in record time, kicking the door closed behind him. Another three long strides and he’s dropping Dean onto his bed, watching ravenously as he bounces.

Dean’s scowling at him, a blush of indignation on his cheeks--and God, Castiel couldn’t wait to fuck that look off his face. He rips his shirt off and growls, pleased, when Dean’s mouthing off is immediately cut off and replaced by a gaping mouth and wide eyes staring at his chest. While Dean’s distracted, he pounces.

He’s waited so long for this, decades to find someone as compatible as Dean Winchester, someone who lights up his nerve endings like this. He devours the mouth below him, pressing down into him and rumbling in arousal when Dean goes pliant beneath his hands. The sounds Dean makes when Castiel abandons his mouth in favor of kissing down his chest sends shocks of pleasure straight to his cock. The urge to roll Dean over, to grip his hips and raise them up so Castiel can just fuck into that tight heat is maddening. But he wants this to be perfect for Dean, he deserves that. 

Dean deserves everything. 

And they’ll have all the time in the world to rut like feral monsters.

Later.

So Castiel spoils him, glides his tongue and teeth over the soft flesh of his stomach. Sucks red and purple marks into his hips and just above the waistband of his pajamas. He slides Dean’s pants down his long, wonderfully bowed legs and tosses them carelessly onto the floor.

Dean has the most beautiful cock he’s ever seen. There’s no stopping himself from letting his eyes drink him in; always greedy, always hungry where Dean is concerned. His fingers trail up the length of him and he marvels at the silky texture. Everything about it is perfect: how it curves slightly to the left, the pretty flush of blood at the tip, the light smattering of freckles even here.

In a trance he leans forward and flicks out his tongue, lapping up the bead of precum gathering at the tip. Dean bucks, a hand flying to his mouth to bite a fist and stop the sounds. 

“ No, ” Castiel whispers, going polyphonic, echoes of voices laid over each other and blending with the heavy rumble of growing thunder, “ Let me hear you, Dean.”

It’s a command, the sort people fear in a biblical sense, whisper about in churches that still think angels are God’s messengers and not just gluttonous and lustful beasts like everything else. 

Be not afraid, for I am an Angel of the Lord. 

But he’s not an ‘angel of the lord,’ he’s hungry.

Famished.

Lustful and covetous and lonely and nothing will fill the empty hole in his grace except Dean’s love, the song of his pleasure, the acceptance of his soul and flesh.

He’s always been more ravenous than his brothers and sisters. 

Dean follows his order immediately, hands gripping the sheets as his head throws back with a heated moan, “Holy shit Cas, that’s hot as fuck.”

Castiel grins against the base of Dean’s cock before drawing the whole thing into his mouth, sucking leisurely. It’s easy to hold Dean’s hips down with one hand. Hold him still as Castiel worships him--and, hmm, perhaps he is an angel of the Lord. Though the Lord in his heart definitely isn’t any El or Yahweh or God. It’s a man named Dean, laid spread out before him, a holy icon crying his pleasure to the room. 

He slides a hand down Dean’s stomach, enjoys the flutter and twitch of muscles. The other slips down between Dean’s spread legs to open his love up one finger at a time, curling inside him and seeping his magic into the hot flesh.

“Did you just-- nng!-- mojo my fucking ass, Cas?” Dean pants, no doubt feeling the grace solidifying inside of him, turning smooth and wet and easing the path of Castiel’s fingers.

He just rumbles deep in his chest, sinking down on the cock in his mouth and letting Dean feel Enochian around his swollen member. It’s not so much a language of just words, though it can certainly be used that way. He lets Dean experience it all, as it’s meant to be sung in the heavens, all vibrating vocal cords and thumping hums and the chimes of bells and deep rumble of drums. It’s a sound that could shatter the windows of churches, lay even the most pious trembling. He couples the song with a second finger finding its way home, curling and dragging against the sweet, spongy flesh hiding his prostate. Dean comes almost immediately, his beautiful and righteous man, back arching harshly off the bed as he wails.

The taste is addicting, Dean tastes as good as he looks and sounds. Honey and salt and holy , holy, holy . He allows himself a decadent moment to hold it in his mouth, Dean’s quivering cock softening on his tongue, before he swallows it down. Eventually he releases him, letting the flesh drop with a final, wet slurp that has Dean jerking.

But Castiel is not merciful. No angel truly is, despite what books and movies and romantic novels wax poetic about. He doesn’t give Dean even a moment to catch his breath, lunging up to capture his mouth with his own, tongue diving in and devouring. A third and final finger slips inside, eased by the lubricating grace, and he stretches out his precious lover, preparing him for the consummation of their love.

He’s careful when he lifts Dean’s hips and presses his cock to his slicked up hole. It’s with great concentration that he forces himself to look into Dean’s eyes, nudging his hips forward questioning. As much as wants to just take, take, take, take , he needs Dean’s acceptance.

The books do get that right. Angels, as violent, feral, and ravenous as they are, need to be let in. To have a body give themselves over, offer themselves up on holy platters for the angel to love and devour.

“ Will you give yourself to me, Dean?”

“Fuck yes!” Dean keens, bucking up against him, body still quivering with the pleasure of his first orgasm.

The first of many Castiel thinks with wild lust, but it’s not enough.

He takes a shaky breath. Dean has to understand what it is he’s freely giving. So he takes his face in hand, tips it up until they’re staring each other in the eye and waits until the fog of lust slips from Dean’s gaze.

“ I will take all of you, Dean. Forever. And you will have me. Do you understand?”

Dean’s brows furrow for just a moment, the words echoed on his lips as he repeats them. Castiel for once is patient. He’s waited so long, he can wait a moment longer for his true love to understand.

Finally realization brightens Dean’s eyes, “Y-you want…I’m…?”

Castiel just answers with a jerking nod, body trembling with the force of his restraint.

Dean swallow. Parts and licks his lips. There’s no hesitation when he finally whispers, “...Yes.”

Castiel sings his praise to the universe, heart and grace alight as he presses slow and reverentially into him. His breath comes out shaky as he bottoms out, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment as he allows himself to feel their joined bodies. His hand rests on Dean’s shoulder, gripping tightly, the only warning Dean gets before Castiel moves, ripping him from the eternal loneliness of mortal perdition and into their joint, eternal paradise.

“ You are mine, ” Castiel whispers, his eyes glowing an eerie blue in the dark, casting Dean’s face in lovely, ethereal hues.

“Y-Yes!” Dean clings to him, cock hard again and leaking between their stomachs.

“ Say it, ” he breaths into Dean’s ear with a particularly sharp thrust.

“I’m yours, Cas! Please!”

“ My true love, ” Castiel feels Dean tighten around him as his body goes rigid and Castiel feels the hot release of Dean’s orgasm splatter against him. He doesn’t stop, instead speeds up, pulling Dean as close to him as he can, hand a vice on his shoulder as he snaps his hips forward, hard and fast, keeping him pinned to the mattress, “ Say. It.”

Dean is a gasping, shaking mess below him as he tries to form words. He can tell he’s reaching close to his tipping point, the pleasure shifting to this side of oversensitive and painful, “You’re-You’re my true love, Cas! Fuck--!”

“I wish to mark you, Dean. May I?”

“Yes, please, Cas! A-Anything!” His lovely mate is flushed and trembling, strung out and beautiful in the most delicious way. But that’s ok, Castiel will give him everything and anything he needs. He knows just how to soothe that lonely ache.

“Good boy,” Castiel bites down on the side of Dean’s neck the same time his grace pulses through his shoulder, filling him with white hot light. It’s a searing brand of flesh and soul marking him inside and out with pure intent . A divine acceptance of two souls twining together, grace and self mixing. The other angels will see it, see that Dean is claimed, see Castiel’s signature and song resonating in a world only their eyes can see and hear.

How jealous will they be to see such beauty and know they cannot have it.

Dean practically flails below him, a final orgasm ripping itself out of him in time with Castiel’s own, his arms and legs wrapped as tight as possible around Castiel’s body. He follows soon after, wings bursting out behind him and filling the small space as he spills his claim into Dean, filling him in the most complete and final meaning of the word. The world around them goes dark as the bulbs and windows in the room shatter. The hum of electricity peaks with a violent shriek as his Voice and essence overpowers the current, blanketing the entire block in fucked out black.

Panting, he drops down and peppers Dean’s face with kisses. After a moment his heartbeat calms, and it takes yet another for his voice to return to its usual timbre, full of praise and adoration, “My beautiful boy, you did so good for me. Accepted me so well.”

Dean doesn’t respond, laying limp in his arms and quaking like a leaf, eyes glazing over with rapturous bliss as Castiel gently cleans and pampers him. The sweetest little sounds of contented pleasure fill the room like heavenly ambrosia. Castiel gently strokes his bruising flesh, soothing away the pain with each press of tender lips. He curls himself around the younger man, wraps him in a cocoon of blankets and wings, a deep coo rattling in his chest.

His true love was perfect.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” Castiel whispers, pressing a final kiss to his temple and watches with an adoring smile as Dean drifts off immediately, lulled by the gentle hum in Castiel’s throat and chest.

Chapter Text

It’s been two weeks since Castiel started dating him, and Dean is over the fucking moon. All happy and shit. Has a spring in his step and stars in his eyes, etc etc etc. Like his life has gone from crappy HBO prime time to Hallmark Christmas Special. He still lives in his shitty apartment with Sam, though he’s slowly allowing himself to consider maybe moving them into his boyfriend’s place.

Sam is , of course , all for it and already clipping out pictures of wedding themes and cakes from bridal magazines and attaching them to a god damn mood board, a giant tri-fold car d board monstrosity that he got at the D ollar T ree. Apparently , a courthouse wedding at some unspecified date isn’t good enough, Dean, you have to lock him down before he can get away.

The handprint on his arm kind of makes him feel like they’re married already anyway, so he only throws away the first three mood boards before he gives in and allows Sam his meddling. Castiel is, of course, a total traitor and more than happy to sit with Sam in their crappy studio apartment’s living room and cut out pictures of tuxedos and suits.

Which is what’s happening now; Dean nursing a beer while the other two chat about the grand march and first dance song. Now, Dean i s a red blooded, meat - eating manly man and not some romantic, sappy chick , so he ha s no idea what the fuck they ’ re talking about.

Obviously.

Definitely.

“No way , Sammy, those are fuck ugly,” but that doesn’t mean he can’t correct them when they’re wrong about things that are totally manly, like flower arrangements. He also bans roses because he hates how they smell, carnations because he’s pretty sure he’s allergic, but begrudgingly allows sunflowers when Castiel turns his big ole baby blues on him.

Dude was turning him into a sap.

Not that he really minded too much.

It was kind of nice, sitting here on their lumpy couch, his knee touching Castiel’s shoulder while he sits on the floor showing him some atrocious powder blue suit that looked like it came from the damn seventies.

He bans that one too, for fuck sake.

---

It’s a month into dating when things come full circle and Sam finally does it: tries to make a basic sleeping tonic and accidentally makes an eternal sleep potion instead. It’s an odd feeling, floating in the darkness. He’s not… asleep per s e . But not really awake either.

Words slip in through the black silence sometimes; he can hear Sam trying to wake him up that morning. Can feel his hands on his shoulders and shaking. Can feel ‘ Dean? Dean! Wake up, please!’ r ight down to his marrow.

But he can’t actually feel any of it. Like his body and brain are disconnected, taking in everything two seconds too late, and processing it five minutes later without being able to really understand.

Like being very, very drunk but knowing you’re very drunk.

Blackout drunk even.

When Sam picks him up and drags him out the door he can feel that too, right down to every thump, thump, thump of his slippered feet hitting the old wood stairs. The morning air is still chilly, though his body doesn’t react at all. Not even a single goosebump or shiver.

And he can tell the moment he’s propped up in a chair in the Urgent Care, and at least this time he’s not a frog or a pumpkin. But he can’t tell the texture of the chair or if it’s comfortable or not, despite knowing for sure from personal experience it was definitely NOT comfortable. 

The pressure in the air changes some indeterminable time later–seconds, minutes, hours? He has no idea, no way to tell in this empty blackness. 

So when Castiel walks into the room-and he knows it’s Castiel, can see the blinding light of his soul penetrating the darkness. It’s like a beacon over the sea, draws Dean’s attention like a wayward star desperate for the moon. Matching light pulses softly from where his shoulder should be, and Dean can make out the very fingerprints etched into his skin as they glow.

When Castiel speaks , he hears every word, though none of it is English, and they aren’t even really words . It’s all ozone and thunder and a chanting chorus echoing in a t o o small room, shattered light bulbs and shocks of liquid heat.

“I see it’s Friday again,” the light settles near and he’s calmed by the humor of the echoing vocalizations, “Dean’s nap time lasting too long?”

There’s a reply from… somewhere ?... but Dean can’t pinpoint from where and hears the distant impression of words. Someone is answering.

“A sleeping tonic? Ah, I see,” the light touches his soul, opens his eyelids to even more blackness, “seems to have morphed to an elixir of eternal slumber. The witch in Snow White used something similar with the apple.”

Eternal Slumber, that seemed right.

A wave of anxiety permeates the room, the other occupant (Sam?) is distressed, question after unheard question filling the space.

“Oh, the remedy is quite simple.”

The light leans forward, flowing into his body and Dean awakens with a gasp, his eyes flying open , getting nearly blinded by the overhead fluorescent bulbs. When his eyes focus , he’s met with not blackness but pools of unearthly blue.

Castiel leans back with a pleased smirk as Dean takes in the exam room and a relieved Sammy in the next chair.

“What the fuck just happened?”

“Just that I was correct,” Castiel says loftily, turning in his chair to scribble on Dean’s forms, “having a true love was very beneficial to your curse breakings.”

Dean scoffs at the blush and Sam’s snickering next to him and rolls his eyes.

He doesn’t argue though.

Because Castiel isn’t wrong.

Dean is so, so thankful for him; and not just for the benefits in curse breaking. For every time he’ll be Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, or some other sleeping chick.

He’s grateful for the happily ever after he never thought he’d get.

But that’s sappy c h ick flick shit.

And this isn’t a L ifetime movie.

So , of course , Dean keeps it to himself, tucked away deep in his heart where no one can poke at it.

Until Castiel can wring it out of him each night when Dean’s strung out on pleasure and too delirious to think about how mushy he sounds.

But in his defence , that’s a P ornhub moment, not a chick flick moment.