Dean gets Sam up early that Saturday, managing to pry him out of bed with the promise of breakfast. He wants to get to the Roadhouse before they fill up on customers and run out of real maple syrup, and in any case, it's best to get started as early as possible. He and his brother are parting ways just after lunch; Sam's going to a friend's to study for the afternoon, and Dean to fix Castiel's car, though he hasn't mentioned it, because honestly, it does sound a little strange.

Regardless, Dean wants to monopolize his little brother for as long as possible. It doesn't merit saying that these weekends together will become less and less frequent as Sam gets more comfortable at school, finds more friends, maybe even a girl, and starts to develop a life of his own. Dean can't complain – that's only natural, after all; it's just unfortunate that he never had that, a normal childhood, a safe transition into independence. But no matter what, he's going to make the most of the time he has left.

Sam has to shave before they leave; he's been adamant about it since he turned sixteen, even though Dean mocks him incessantly, because all he really takes off is the vaguest dusting of peach fuzz that lies like brown sugar on his jawline. He's still grumbling when they get in the car, but the smooth hum of the engine soon brings out a smile, and Dean grins, slapping the dashboard affectionately. There's time to spare, and they cruise downtown with the windows open despite the cold. Working the steering wheel with one hand, Dean dangles an arm out the window and taps out Metallica on the flank of the car with his index finger, and nothing in the world is more natural than that.

The town isn't a big place, just a little network of streets, a few gas stations, an avenue crammed with kitschy boutiques, and one or two diners with halfway decent food. The university is a few miles outside the city limits, and aside from the ramshackle public schools, the academy is really the main attraction. An impressive display of suburbia fans out around the campus, like an ugly ring beset with manicured lawns and cobblestone and faux marble fountains. Otherwise, there's not much, but that's alright. It's their town, and there's always a certain comfort to be had in dusty streets and quiet evenings.

The Roadhouse is, of course, their favorite diner. Sure, it's vaguely dingy – windows smeared in places, the red-and-white striped balcony stained, a dilapidated newspaper kiosk standing lone vigil outside – but it's almost a second home to them, and Dean rubs his hands together in anticipation as they step out of the car.

"Think Ellen'd be willing to get me a beer at this time of day, Sammy?"

Sam rolls his eyes, but there's the familiar trace of a smile pulling at his mouth, the one he uses when he's trying not to humor bad behavior. Dean cuffs him on the back of the neck, halfway drawing him into the circle of his arm before letting him go all at once, sticking out his tongue when he makes an exaggerated swipe back.

Inside, the air is promisingly thick with the smell of fried eggs and coffee, and Dean's stomach rolls in anticipation. He slides into one of the scarlet vinyl booths and pulls out a menu; it's a bit spotted from use, even dog-eared in places where the lamination is chipped, but perfectly legible to his expert eyes. Ellen – almost a second mother to them, in a certain sense – comes over with a pot of coffee and a notebook, and punches Sam on the shoulder before taking down their order. Her daughter is lounging at the counter, snapping gum and toying with a pocket knife. Dean shoots her a wink and she rolls her eyes. It's just like always, like nothing has changed. Perfect.

Dean leans back into a patch of morning sun that sneaks through the half-open blinds and closes his eyes, content. This place is a private tradition of theirs, especially on lazy Saturday mornings, and it's reassuring to be there with Sam, despite all that's changed. Sam looks happy, too, smiling faintly as he drowns his coffee in cream and sugar. Dean snorts, and his brother glances up with a knowing glint in his eyes. Without having to say a word, he already knows the complaint: real men take their coffee black. Dean likes to compare their relationship to a well-oiled machine in which the gears are made of inside jokes and private understandings that don't even need saying anymore to work, just roll together perfectly without any mention at all. It's how brothers should be, he reckons, and to be honest, he's ferociously proud of that.

Sam is talking about biology again, and Dean's not really listening, though he does appreciate the flicker of excitement in his brother's eyes. It's great to see him so enthused about his classes. Public school always left him bored, and even if he was a good kid, never putting down his classmates or complaining, it was obvious that he was getting impatient. It's a miracle, really, that they ever got the opportunity to transfer to such an elite academy. A perfect miracle. Dean hasn't really stopped being amazed, to be honest.

"And then there's Jessica," says Sam, caught somewhere in the middle of a thought, and Dean perks up, his interest piqued. "She's pretty cool, too. Really into insects. She told me about that a couple days ago when we were working on our project. Not like most girls, you know?"

He smiles sort of privately. In contrast, Dean is outright smirking. He promptly asks for her bra size only to see the terrific display of color across Sam's cheeks. He isn't disappointed. Sam is downright spluttering, crimson up to his ears, and Dean can't help but dissolve into laughter, the kind that balloons up from deep in his belly in the way that only his little brother can bring about.

"What the hell, Dean?" hisses Sam once he's able. "She's a nice girl. Don't be like that."

Dean shrugs. "Jesus. I was just curious."

Sam gives him the middle finger just as the food comes, earning a smack from Ellen. Dean snickers into his scrambled eggs as his brother glowers. They bicker quietly for the rest of breakfast, and Dean is thrilled, because in that tiny slice of time, cut fresh and golden from the rest of the day, it's like nothing's changed, like they're still kids without a dad, just trying to pay the rent, stay warm and fed, and survive. And maybe that doesn't sound like an ideal situation, but sometimes Dean misses that world (a world in which it might have been only he and his brother, but in which they were always together, so that it seemed like they could stand up to anything as long as they stood up side by side) so much that it hurts, and it's nice to recreate it now and again, even if just for the fleeting hours between morning and afternoon.

Dean only remembers that he's still wearing his leather jacket when he's already halfway to Castiel's place. He stopped to pick up his tools and to drop Sam off, but he never thought to change. Usually, he doesn't worry about that kind of thing, but in this case, in the case of Castiel, it's a little different. The idea of facing up to his boss (friend), with that long coat of his and that disheveled shirt and tie, not to mention that piercing stare that seems to lay a person raw before the eyes of God and everyone (so to speak, of course), wearing nothing nicer than torn jeans and his dad's old leather jacket, his everyday clothes, laden with meaning and routine, makes him feel vulnerable in a way he can't quite understand.

He's actually nervous when he pulls up to the curb, and checks the address three times before he ventures outside. He's never been in this neighborhood before. It's a wealthy place, all manicured lawns and shiny cars, so he's never really had reason to go. He wipes his hands on his thighs and leaves the tools in the trunk for the time being, and then standing at the edge of the road, he's suddenly wondering why he offered to do this in the first place. Sure, he and Castiel might be colleagues, even business friends, but this is his home, where curious neighbors are watching and Dean protrudes like a battered old model in a new car lot.

He swallows thickly, trying to restore his sense of reason. He knows this fear is ridiculous, and grudgingly admits that maybe his thudding heart doesn't have so much to do with the wealthy neighborhood or the leather jacket as with Castiel's voice, or the way he tips his head back when he laughs for real, or the impossibly earnest blue of eyes, or the wealth of emotion legible in his expression, or maybe all those damn things put together. But Dean doesn't want to think about that. He can't think about that. It's too strange, for too many reasons. Instead he focuses on cracking his knuckles and exhaling, struggling to calm the frenetic stutter of his pulse. He knows he's just being stupid. But despite everything, it only gets worse when he looks up and sees what must be Castiel's house.

If it weren't for that smug little Prius tucked into the driveway, he wouldn't have believed it. Castiel said he lived alone, but surely such a house couldn't belong to just one man. Dean didn't get a proper look when he pulled up, but standing at the cusp of the driveway, it's breathtaking. The lawn rolls luxuriously from the lip of the hill, an undulant flood of green, suggestive of velvet or even silk that's been spilt and rutched up the nuances of the countryside, stitched together by cobblestone walkways and little groves of trees. The house is an enormous white jewel set in this superabundance of fabric : a fine, classic model to which age has only leant increased grandeur.

A bit slack-jawed, Dean makes his way slowly to the wraparound porch. He's never seen a house like this before, and it's terrifying. All reason is gone from his mind; he desperately wants to bolt, jump back in his car, drive back to the grime and dust of the diner, the comfortable cramped quality of his apartment, but instead he rings the doorbell and waits, heartbeat screaming in his ears.

Castiel taps him on the shoulder from behind, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. For a moment he's actually concerned he might go into cardiac arrest because the sunlight has strengthened, and sends long splinters of gold jutting into Castiel's hair and eyes, staining that absurd shade of blue, gilding the strong contours of his chin and jaw. He's carrying two ceramic pots that brim over with marigolds, and looks apologetic, but no less amused.

"Jesus Christ," gasps Dean, clutching his chest. "You're gardening at this time of year?"

It's all he could think to say, and for a moment he worries that he's been rude, but Castiel only chuckles. He's wearing jeans, too – nice jeans, snugly fitted, fine denim, but jeans nonetheless – and a waffle-knit shirt unbuttoned at the throat so that the dip of his clavicle is just visible. His hair, however, is familiar (perpetually tangled, perhaps beyond repair), and his jaw is still dusted with recognizable five o'clock shadow. Dean is disproportionately relieved. It's strangely reassuring to see him so comfortable.

"Hello to you, too." Castiel shifts the weight of the pots in his arms. "I have a greenhouse out back. Warm all year."

"You mean there's more to this place?" Dean said it before he could stop himself, and he instantly regrets it, but Castiel's smile only widens.

"I'll admit it's excessive," he says with good-natured contriteness. "To be fair, most of it was my brother's idea. He's not usually around – well, alright, he's around, but he has his own place, too – but when he wants a hot meal, he stays with me. Namely because I'm the only one who'll take him, but – well, that's another story, anyways. I must confess, however, that the greenhouse was indeed a personal addition. I do hope you're not too offended."

Dean can hear the fondness in his voice. "I'll try to recover," he says with a smirk.

"How generous of you." Castiel gives a crooked smile. "Would you like to come in?"

"That's alright," says Dean, perhaps too quickly. "I'll just get to work out back, if you don't mind."

Castiel gives him a long, indecipherable look.

"Of course. But please don't hesitate if you need anything; I'll be inside grading papers, and would in fact welcome the interruption."

"Sure," says Dean.

"Wonderful." Castiel smiles again, and props open the door, wedging himself inside with the pots still crowding his arms. "And thank you again, Dean. Truly."

"Of course," says Dean. "No problem."

He makes his escape the moment Castiel disappears into the house, tearing down the lawn until he reaches the Impala: safe. He grabs his tools and gets under the hood as fast as possible. It's only a matter of minutes before he's totally absorbed, lost in the gentle clink of metal on metal, the pull of resistance at his arms, the oil and grit pushing up under his fingernails. It's another pretty winter afternoon, airbrushed with precise strokes of cornflower and butter yellow, and the sun melts gradually on his back and shoulders, tempering the harsh cold of a Kansas January.

He doesn't really think about anything, just the come and go of his breathing and the weight of the wrench in his palm. That's the best thing about working on cars: they're tangible, obvious beings, and every contour is palpable, understandable. There's no theorizing to be had on the subject; all the parts are aligned according to simple rhyme and reason, so it's easy to find a problem, and the problem is likewise easy to fix. One doesn't have to think much, and that's good, because thinking is troublesome in the first place, and for Dean right now, thinking means half-formed glimpses of blue eyes and earnest laughter, little whispers skirting surreptitiously around the corners of his mind like they're guilty, afraid of being there, and he doesn't know what to make of that. Yes– definitely best not to think, in the end.

"Aren't you cold?"

Dean nearly strikes his head on the hood. Castiel is standing there, watching him mildly, apparently caught between amused and concerned. Dean doesn't remember when he took off the leather jacket, but realizes that he's down to just his undershirt (paper-thin cotton), shivering. He rubs at his arms, only vaguely aware of the cold, and shrugs.

"I don't really notice it while I'm working," he admits. "I get kind of lost to the world, to be honest."

"Fair enough," says Castiel with a fond smile. "Anyways, what do you think? Is it easily fixed?"

Dean grins, rubbing his hands together. "Oh, yeah. Don't worry; it's nothing big. I'll have her raring to go by the end of the afternoon."

"Excellent." Castiel cranes his neck, maybe trying to catch a glimpse beneath the hood. "Do you mind if I watch?"

Dean swallows. "Well, it's nothing exciting, but if you want."

"I do," asserts Castiel immediately. With that, he settles himself against the window of the passenger side with a discomfiting air of permanence.

Dean hesitates for a moment, then forces himself not to worry and dives back under the hood, into the heady comforting smell of oil and exhaust. Castiel is quiet, respectful, and soon Dean forgets he's even there, loses himself again, so that the world narrows down to just himself and the car. Nothing but Dean and simple, mechanical workings he can understand; Dean and simple, mechanical problems he can solve, problems that don't require a degree or a suit or a letter of recommendation. Time turns fluid, coursing past, weaving through the gears and nuts and bolts, winding around his wrench, indefinite. Beneath the hood, right in that moment, is the best place in the world.

At some point, Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder, and the bullet of static coursing down his arm shatters the trance.

"I'm going inside to make some lunch," he explains softly. "Are you hungry?"

Dean almost says no, but the roll of his stomach is a sharp reminder that he hasn't eaten since breakfast, and he can't help it. He nods, and Castiel smiles widely; he looks downright thrilled, actually. Dean stares, and Castiel flushes, and explains that he's just happy to be allowed to return a favor, even in such a small way. At that, the color in his cheeks deepens, and he gives Dean a hurried goodbye and rushes back into the house. Dean tries not to watch him go.

He works a little while longer before Castiel reappears and coaxes him inside. However, the promise of lunch doesn't temper his reluctance, and he hesitates at the threshold, trying to get a good look inside the house from a safe standpoint at the doorway. A fruitless effort, of course; he only ends up blindly following Castiel into a capacious foyer that's dimly lit by inset lamps so that the light is milky grey and only gives the impression of depth. Dean kicks off his shoes and wipes his hands on his thighs, now lamenting the grime shoved up under his fingernails, before he pads softly down a long hall that runs past the parlor, a flight of stairs, several closed doors, until finally giving into the kitchen.

The entire back wall is set with windows, and the sun pours inside, drenching the counters and cabinets, pooling in the pots and pans left out to dry. The kitchen is simple, metal and wood with white enamel accents and flowered wallpaper in patches. There's a dining table and chairs on the other side. Castiel has his back to Dean, standing at the counter arranging sandwiches onto a tray. He turns with a smile, and ushers Dean over to the dining table, apologizing for the clutter and urging him to sit wherever he likes. Dean does just that, a little stiffly, and tries to get a hold of his surroundings.

The dining table is drowning in a wide white lake of sunshine. Every free space is crammed with loose paper and manila folders; there's a laptop in one corner, and one of the chairs is pulled out askew, so Dean guesses that it's a sort of makeshift office. Through the window, reaching from floor to ceiling, the view of the backyard is tremendous; you can really appreciate the rolling contours of the hills, the dark fringe of forest, the pale green peaks of the greenhouse.

"You have a beautiful home," says Dean, somewhat uselessly, really only as a ploy to fill the silence as Castiel brings over a tray of sandwiches and some beers. He hands over a beer, and Dean's surprised to see that it's a brand he loves. He wouldn't have thought that they shared tastes in that regard, but it's nice to know.

"Thank you." Castiel settles across from him and takes a sandwich off the tray, but pauses before he starts eating. "You don't need a plate, do you?"

Dean laughs and shakes his head. "Not at all. Thanks for lunch, by the way."

"Thanks for fixing my car," replies Castiel through a mouthful. "It's the least I could do."

"I'm not finished with the car yet," reminds Dean, easing open the cap on his beer and taking a swig. "Still got about an hour to go, I reckon."

Castiel nods, and they fall into meaningless small talk between sandwiches – fragments of conversation about the weather, the architecture of the house, the garden. Dean's still on edge, but Castiel's level voice is gradually unraveling his nerves. It is, in fact, ridiculously easy to talk to him, despite the unsettling intensity of his stare and the frightening earnestness of his words. However, this only poses a fresh set of worries, because when it's so easy, Dean has to be careful to hold his tongue and keep himself from spilling over and assimilating into the unbelievable honesty with which Castiel presents his every expression.

At some point they lapse into silence, and Dean starts to feel uneasy, sipping at his beer to buy himself time to think of something to say. Castiel, however, beats him to the punch.

"You know, if I may make an observation, Dean – well, I've never seen you like that before."

Dean lowers his beer warily. "Like what?"

"Working on the car, you're – different. You were right when you said you get kind of lost. You're so efficient with the tools, almost fluid, like you're not even thinking. I don't know. It seems like it's innate, to you, that sort of work." Castiel smiles almost shyly, and looks down at his hands. "It's strange to me. You looked – well, you looked really happy."

Dean's throat feels thick, and it's a while before he can say anything. "Um. It's funny that you say that."

Castiel tilts his head to the side. "Why's that?"

"It's…" Dean clears his throat. "Well, that's what I thought when I first saw you teaching."

Castiel is quiet for a long moment, and then his face sort of parts down the middle into a smile so wide and genuine and bright that it eclipses the entire room.

"Thank you, Dean," he says very quietly. "That means a great deal to me."

"It's just true," grunts Dean. His cheeks prickle with heat and he takes a hurried sip of beer. Then, in a desperate search for a new subject: "You know, I always sort of wanted to become a mechanic. Just a mechanic, I mean. I used to work at the garage, sure, but – I don't know. Just a mechanic. Nothing else."

He regrets it immediately, because interest flares in Castiel's eyes, and he's definitely going to ask questions, pertinent probing questions that Dean will have trouble answering.

"But you're becoming a teacher instead," murmurs Castiel. Dean nods. Castiel is quiet; he laces his fingers together to rest his chin. "Is there a story behind that?"

"Well, sort of." Dean risks a glance at Castiel, and opens his mouth, and then it's over. Beneath the intense weight of that stare, Dean feels everything sort of bubbling up inside of him, the words melted down, turned liquid, ready to spill easily from his mouth and course across the table, the rampant flood of his history. He takes a deep breath.

"When I was four years old, there was a fire," he begins, and that's that. It all begins to pour from somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, so fast – almost violent from being pent up so long – that he can't hope to stem the flow. Castiel listens intently, and throughout it all Dean can see the play of emotions across his face, every shade of sympathy and regret and something else that he can't quite put his finger on, something very soft and malleable that sends his heart into little fits that he doesn't want to acknowledge.

His mother died trying to rescue newborn Sam from the flames, and nothing was ever the same. Dean recovered (to the extent that one can recover from such a thing) but their father sort of teetered off the brink of the world. It was a gradual process. By the time Dean was seven, John Winchester only went to work three days a week, and drank the rest of the time away. But it got worse. When Sam started school, Dean was late to class every day because it was he who walked his baby brother halfway across town. John had had his license revoked the year prior. It was hard, but it wasn't so bad, not all the time. They still looked like a family, at least.

But not long after, John started disappearing for indefinite periods of time, during which Dean and Sam would survive on nothing but cheap welfare food and worry. That way, Dean learned to cook and steal, because sometimes they needed shampoo or new pencils, and if John was away there was nobody to swipe a credit card or cash a check. It wasn't fair. A child shouldn't have to wonder if his father is ever coming home, or if he's washed up drunk in a ditch somewhere, or landed in jail, or worse. A child shouldn't have to tell his brother every night that everything's going to be alright and not really believe it himself.

At some point in the conversation, Dean realizes he's getting angry, and apologizes. It's hard to keep control; he doesn't talk about this often, and when he does, it's easy to get carried away. But Castiel just shakes his head, eyes impossibly blue and soft, and tells him not to worry. So Dean doesn't. Because Castiel said so, Dean doesn't worry. He only swallows, and goes on, unable to stop himself.

It's terrible to say, but when John died of alcohol poisoning when Dean was a freshman in high school, things got easier. Custody was given to Bobby, an old family friend and the owner of the garage where John used to work. Bobby was a good man, very good, but at that point in time Dean was so bitterly independent that he refused to accept any help, said that he had always survived on his own, kept Sammy alive on his own, and that he would keep going no matter what. He would drop out of school, get a full-time job at the garage, and work for the rest of his life, even if only to see his brother grow up strong and proper, a good man at the expense of his older brother's childhood. It was, he thought at the time, a very noble plan.

But Bobby, of course, only boxed him on the ears, like always, and forced a compromise: they could have their own apartment out of his wallet as long as Dean stayed in school, went to college, and became a good man himself. At first, Dean was furious. He didn't want help. But he had to accept the deal, and in the end, it was the right choice. He discovered that he had a knack with languages, and that he could juggle college, part-time work at the garage, and pushing Sam through the tedium of public education without breaking a sweat. It worked.

That much was alright. Dean knew his brother deserved better, but it was all they could afford until Sam won that scholarship and Dean managed to swing a job as an assistant at the academy to get him off the waiting list. That was a feat which, he might add, required no small amount of begging, and sapped his pride as well as his strength. Nowadays he's perpetually exhausted, devoting his evenings to online classes and schoolwork without the daily respite of the garage to take the edge off the tedium, but it's worth it.

Everything is worth it just to see Sam smile and grow into the exceptional man Dean knows him to be.

"And that's that." Dean belatedly realizes that he's just betrayed every secret he's ever kept. "Here I am."

"Here you are, indeed," murmurs Castiel. For a long moment, his expression is indecipherable. Then he sort of extends a hand, and Dean's breath catches, but in the end Castiel doesn't do anything with it, only lets it fall to the tabletop, lost. He shakes his head once, twice. Dean's pulse is going mad. The silence stretches on, agonizing, for another heartbeat.

"When I first looked at you, Dean Winchester," says Castiel at long last, slowly, like he's testing the contours of each word on the tip of his tongue. "I must admit that I did not think you were remarkable. In fact, I must admit that I thought you entirely ordinary."

He looks up, and his eyes are huge, terrifyingly soft, almost liquid, in which Dean feels fit to drown.

"I was wrong."

Quiet. Dean is acutely aware of the most inconsequential things: the pattern of the sunlight on the tabletop, the come and go of his own breathing, the stutter of his pulse, the itchy spot below his jaw where he cut himself shaving that morning. Castiel doesn't look away for an instant. Dean wants passionately to flee, but at the same time he's consumed with the ferocious urge to lunge across the table towards something. He has to admit that he doesn't really know what. But it doesn't matter. He just sits speechless for a long time before he manages to produce a thank you on a wavering exhale.

"Stop that." Castiel sort of leans into the table like he wants to reach out for something, but he never does. "Thank you, Dean."

There's a long pause. Castiel's jaw slackens.

"For fixing my car, that is."

Dean clears his throat, one hand inevitably flying to scratch at the back of his neck.

"Right. Sure thing."

The tension stretches and expands, swallowing them whole. Castiel rolls his lower lip between his teeth. Dean drums his fingers along the flanks of the beer bottle and looks anywhere but in Castiel's eyes, because truth be told, he's afraid of what he'll find. He knows, somehow, that when he looks up he will meet with a tenderness too immense to control, and he can't let that happen. His skin is alive with static, his breathing labored, pulling on his lungs. He can't look up.

At long last, Castiel stands, and Dean feels the tension shatter. He exhales. Castiel starts to gather the plates, and Dean offers to rinse and recycle the beer bottles. The cool rush of the water washes the heat from his skin and sharpens the edges of reality. He's in control now. It's alright. He nearly bumps into Castiel turning from the sink, and for a moment their eyes meet, but it's alright. Dean takes the bottles to recycling and goes back outside to finish with the car.

By then, it's late afternoon, but he's only got about an hour left to go on the car. It's okay because he doesn't have to pick up Sam until after dinner, anyways. He ducks under the hood and lets the rhythm of the work take him again. He wants the process to gradually rinse away his thoughts, ease the frenetic thud of his heartbeat, and his knuckles are aching by the time he looks up and notices that Castiel is back, leaning against the door to the passenger side, watching intently but respectfully.

"Almost done," says Dean with a casual smile. "Actually, if you'll just give me a minute…" He reaches back in, twists and turns a little, hears a reassuring pop, and pulls back, shutting the hood as he goes. "There: she's perfect. I mean, for a Prius, that is."

Castiel smiles and comes forwards to shake his hand. "I really can't thank you enough, Dean."

"Quit it, already. It's no problem, honestly." Dean pats the car almost fondly. "She should be good to go, but if you take her out and something's not right, you know where to find me."

"I do indeed," murmurs Castiel, running his hand along the hood, and looks up to shoot Dean a smirk. "At my desk, grading last week's quiz."

"Speaking of which," says Dean, slipping back into his jacket, beginning to sidle away. "I had really better get going. Thanks again for lunch, and just give me a call if you have any trouble with the engine. See you Monday."

He turns, desperate to make his escape, but Castiel calls out before he reaches the curb. He stops, exhales to compose himself, and looks back as casually as he can manage. Castiel jogs up to meet him, huffing a little bit and running his hand through his hair as he comes to a stop.

"Something tells me you won't like me for this, but I can't let you leave without some form of compensation. Please– "

Before he can go on, Dean opens his mouth, starts to explain how unnecessary that would be, that it was really his pleasure, a friendly act of kindness, but Castiel fixes him with that stern look and the words sort of melt from his tongue and fall down down down, puddling uselessly on the curb.

"Those repairs would have cost me hundreds of dollars," says Castiel. "Protest all you like, but you're not getting away without something a little more elaborate than a sandwich."

Dean points out that there was a beer involved, too, and Castiel rolls his eyes. He's fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve, and Dean can't help but notice how discomfort becomes him, shades the blue of his eyes, brings out the sharp shape of his mouth.

"I know you won't accept money, so I'm not even going to try." Castiel sighs and closes his eyes for a long moment. "But please, let me take you out to dinner. Nothing too fancy or expensive, I promise." He pauses for a long moment. "A business dinner, you know. On me. Please, Dean."

The way he says it makes it sound like it would be a privilege if Dean agreed. For his part, Dean swallows thickly. A business dinner, of course. A modifier added perhaps too late, perhaps too early. Perhaps it shouldn't have been necessary in the first place. Regardless.

"I really couldn't." His palms are sweaty. "I'm not much one for eating out, you know. Unless it's a shitty diner. I mean a crummy diner. Sorry. But I can't imagine someone like you in a crummy diner."

Castiel looks at him with a cross between fondness and exasperation. "You can use profanity around me, Dean. And alright, then. I respect your tastes. Come here instead. I'll cook."

At that, Dean nearly chokes. He tries to protest, but Castiel will have none of it, and beneath the intensity of that gaze, Dean can't help but crumble. Alright, alright, however resentfully: he'll be there. Castiel beams. Next Friday it is, then, around seven o'clock. At last, he shakes Dean's hand for the last time, and retreats back up the driveway. Dean opens the door to the impala and collapses into the front seat, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel until his breathing slows.

He knows what's happening. It's gotten impossible to ignore. But he can't let it happen. He can't jeopardize his job, his brother's academic future, just for the sake of some ridiculous crush. And that's all it is: a crush, a confusing terrifying crush, a crush that's probably not even reciprocated, a crush that's really just imagined, and a crush that doesn't mean anything, not as long as there's that little business tacked on before dinner. Castiel is just that certain brand of magnetic that draws everyone in; the attraction can't be permanent, surely it'll dissipate entirely in a few weeks, and at the end of the semester Dean will laugh at himself for ever worrying. It's nothing, truly.

Dean pushes the car into gear, steers around, and tells himself that all the way home, until he manages to believe it.

AN: Thanks for reading! And also, thanks so much for your very thoughtful reviews last week. It means a ton. See you next Saturday!