1. They Meet

It's Valentine's Day, and Dean will remember for the rest of his life, clear as crystal that this day marked the beginning of their story (as Cas would fondly call it later on). Dean is not cheesy, or a romantic by any means but he can argue with you forever that remembering the celebration of Valentine's Day is in fact, really sweet, and a thing he loves about his and Cas's relationship.

Yes. He does actually love that he saw Cas for the first time, on Valentine's Day. And maybe there should have been violins—he doesn't know; maybe there were too, but this day is important.

It's important because nothing between them was supposed to work, and yet, it just fell together like pieces of a puzzle.

Everything about them was perceived to be wrong. Their togetherness had been cursed, jinxed, and doomed, but Cas is the hottest, sexiest guy in Dean's life right now and he doesn't give a rat's ass about anyone who thinks they're wrong anymore. But before that, it all needs to be narrated from the beginning.

~o~

February 14th, 2017

Lebanon, Kansas

When this story commences, Dean's been working as a janitor at the Smith County Hospital at Lebanon, Kansas for a whole week. He's in charge of the psychiatric ward; the corridors and the bathrooms, and this is not really his first choice for a career, or the last even, but he knows he'll do it as long as it lets him put food on his table. It's really a miracle that Jo could help land him this job because they weren't going to hire him here but thanks to her, he at least has money to take back home.

He tries, though. To be who he used to be. He tries all the time to get himself back there. But people have forgotten him; no one wants him in their clubs or restaurants. No label would even let him in. He is neck-deep in his failure as a musician and it doesn't look like he can work that career any longer.

God, not again.

He doesn't want to wallow about that one anymore. If it happens, it happens. Whatever. Now if he doesn't get to cleaning, he's likely to get his ass kicked and he really doesn't want that.

So he gets his keys out of his pocket and heads to the supplies closet to push off his day when he hears a sound behind him.

He turns around to see Jo, his friend and a dedicated nurse, pushing a cart of medicines as she consults a chart. He waits there, watches her scrutinise her duties and then sigh, producing a hair-tie from her pocket (Sammy could do with one of those). She proceeds to hold it between her teeth as she starts to pull her straight hair up in the ponytail.

"Hey!" he calls out to her, watching her painstakingly tie her hair up. "You wanna get a couple of beers tonight?"

She seems harried as she fiddles with her messy ponytail, finally getting the hair-tie on. "I'll let you know, Winchester," she replies, barely meeting eyes while she squints at her chart. "Today's really busy."

"How many new patients?"

"In the last couple of hours? Two."

At any other point, and even about ten days ago, Dean would tell you that two patients cannot keep you that busy and that you're lying if you say that. But now he's been working in an actual hospital and meeting way more medical professionals than just Jo, and he knows that it's not the case.

"Damn," he says.

"Right." Jo slumps her shoulders, but then gathers herself and gets to work again. "Anyway, I have to go. You cleaning the bathrooms now? Because the patients are due for their showers in a while."

Dean checks his watch for the time and nods. "Yup. Was just thinking the same thing. I'll get going, then."

He opens the supplies closet and waves goodbye at Jo, who throws him a salute in return. He hears her walk away as he grabs the cleaning liquid and the mop and everything else that he needs to load his supplies cart, and when he's done he's on his way to the bathrooms, humming Smoke on the Water under his breath.

It's another long, boring day, but he and Sammy need the money and he's got no choice.

He wishes he did have a choice though and oh, he wishes so hard.

But what're ya gonna do?

~o~

Dean's been cleaning the bathroom for just about ten minutes when he hears voices outside. He's already craving a drink right now and he thinks he might have to move his plans for getting a beer to an earlier time. And since Jo's not coming, he'll have one instead of her. Or maybe a couple of shots of whiskey.

He clenches his fist through a tremor of want.

The voices, however, grow louder and Dean turns around to see an orderly accompany a man around Dean's age, but Dean doesn't pay attention to him as he continues to mop the floor. The orderly leaves to wait outside and the patient stands in the open shower stall in his thin, short hospital gown, clutching onto a towel and a bar of soap. His back is turned to Dean.

Dean dips his mop into his floor-cleaning mixture and hums as he cleans, occasionally casting a glance at the patient. He's got dark hair and is not much shorter than Dean. He's lean and muscular and looks like he's built strong. Dude seems to be one of the newcomers Jo was talking about. Dean wonders what the poor bastard is here for.

Whatever. He's got work to do.

Dean moves over, paying attention to the stark grey tiles he's cleaning, but he doesn't hear the sound of the shower turning. Does the dude not know how to use it? Probably. Should he ask, or—

"Excuse me."

The voice is sharp and gravelly and not at all what Dean expected. His head snaps up in reply and he sees that the patient is standing in the same position as he was a few minutes ago.

Dean stops cleaning. "Yeah?"

"I…" the man clears his voice, "I need privacy."

Dean snorts. "Believe me, dude, I've seen my share of naked guys, and literally nothing's new to me. But I'll get out of your hair for a bit if that's what you want. The orderly is waiting outside though so don't do anything stupid."

The man remains silent for almost a minute before replying. "Thank you."

"No problem." Dean leaves his gear leaning against the wall as he walks away to stand outside. The orderly is waiting there too, a guy Dean doesn't really talk to, and the man nods as Dean nods back. "Hey."

They wait like that, listening to the shower coming on and the streaming of water, and Dean wonders if Sam got to work okay. He seemed to be tense in the morning but the kid is always tense about some shit or the other and he really needs to calm his tits sometimes. But then, that is Sammy for you, and being chill is not in his nature.

Dean chuckles at the thought as a bubble of resentment weighs him down. He and Sam are not in a good place right now. They haven't been in a good place for a while. And God, Dean wishes things would go back to how they were, but every time either of them tries to make it that way they end up fighting again.

His thoughts are interrupted when the orderly makes his way into the bathroom, and Dean takes that as his cue to go in too. He watches the patient emerge with the orderly, in a fresh gown, towel in his hands, and their eyes meet for the briefest second.

The stormy blue that Dean sees in the other dude's eyes remains in his memories forever.

~o~

"So who's the new guy?" Dean asks Jo as he leans against the nurse's station. She's currently going over files and transferring her duties into the next shift for the night-time nurses to pick up.

"Who?" Jo is distracted as she scribbles into a paper.

"That dude—around my age, dark hair, blue eyes, about yea high," he gestures with his hand the man's height, to which Jo reacts by narrowing her eyes.

"There's no new guy who looks like that."

"You sure? 'Cause I saw him when I was cleaning the bathroom earlier today."

Jo chews at her pen as she tries to remember, and then goes back to scribbling on her paper. "Are you talking about Castiel?"

"Castiel?"

"Yeah. He's not new, though. He's been here a week."

"Was he in the locked section?"

"I can't tell you."

"What's his deal?"

"Winchester!" Jo hisses, staring daggers at him. "I can't tell you. This stuff is confidential."

"Yeah, but I'm hardly gonna tell anyone," Dean explains. "You can tell me. You know that."

"No."

Dean sighs, looking around to see that no one else can hear him, as he bends over to mutter to Jo. "He's kinda hot."

She's not amused. "Go home and let me do my work."

"Oh, come on, Harvelle," Dean wheedles, "I wanna ask him out, okay?"

"You know you can't do that, Dean. And you don't even know who he is."

"Yeah, and if you tell me, I'll talk to him first. Then once he's discharged, I can ask him out."

Jo lets her pen fall out of her hand as she grips her hair. "Fine," she says, washing a palm over her face, "I'll tell you if you promise to leave me alone. And this is seriously the last one."

"Deal." Dean grins, leaning over some more as Jo looks around, before talking.

"He was manic, okay? When he was brought in he was in really bad shape but now he's better. He was getting intensive treatment. He came down from it a couple of days ago and they're keeping him here to monitor him and find the best cocktail of meds for him."

Dean sighs. "Bipolar?"

"Yeah. And untreated until now."

"Damn."

Jo gives him a noncommittal nod. "Will you let me work, now?"

"Yeah. Sure. Sorry." Dean wrings his hands together, already thinking of whiskey and beer. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sure, see ya." Jo waves at him as Dean makes his way to his locker to collect his stuff.

As he exits the hospital that day, his mind is only on two things: lots of whiskey, and Castiel.

~o~

There's a jingling of metal and then a hard crack as Dean unlocks the door and sets his keys down on the table just next to it. He hangs up his jacket on the old, half broken hanger in the corner and then flops down onto the ratty couch in the living room. Damn, the cushions on this one are so flat that his ass hurts. They're gonna have to replace this junk…when they can afford it.

His mind wanders and there's only one thing he can picture: startling eyes, messy, wet hair and that voice. That fucking voice.

God.

They'd had the briefest conversation, the tiniest meeting, and yet…

God.

Contrary to what he'd said to Jo, Dean isn't actually going to ask Castiel out. It's kinda… not an okay thing to do, and he knows that. He was just pulling Jo's leg earlier, but deep in his mind, he prevents that thought, that idea from emerging. It's not possible and he's not going to do it.

He shifts around the couch, trying to find a comfortable position. Every part of him aches. Letting out a long exhale he stretches, trying to loosen out his back. He feels drained and he wonders how long he needs to keep doing this. How long they need to keep doing this.

Dean sits up, trying to will away the negativity. Again. He doesn't know how many times a day he has to stop his mind from revisiting that same, goddamned sad part of his life. Most of the days, he gets home before Sam, he sits on the couch and then it's like his mind doesn't stop racing. It just decides to relive and recreate the worst runs of his life.

A life that used to be better than the hell hole they seemed to be stuck in right now.

Dean gets to his feet, walking on well-worn steps to the kitchen and picking out a bottle of vodka he had kept stashed behind two half-empty boxes of cereal. He usually fixes breakfast for himself and Sam so his brother rarely ever opens that particular cabinet himself. It's a great hiding place.

He knows he should feel guilty about even having a stash in the first place since he recalls having given his word to Sam about weaning off the alcohol.

But he needs this. He can feel the unpleasantness. It's not like he hasn't had a drink today but he is tired of his shitty-ass job at the shitty-ass hospital with the shitty-ass hours. He deserves at least a few sips, right? As celebration, for making it through yet another day.

Fuck yeah. He's going to celebrate every small victory of it. And Sam can say what he wants but one vodka is not going to kill Dean's liver.

He picks up the shot glass that was concealed behind the vodka bottle and sets it on the counter just as the sound of the front door being unlocked reaches him.

He pointedly avoids looking at the door, not wanting or having the need to see disappointment in his brother's eyes, not wanting to start yet another fight. He knows it's Sam at the door; they don't receive many visitors anyway.

"Really, Dean?" he hears Sam say just the next moment like he had anticipated, his brother's tone clearly displaying his frustration and annoyance.

"Hello to you too, Sam," Dean retorts, wanting nothing but to be left alone with his drink. He knows he'll say something hurtful or stupid if this keeps going on. (And stay away from this, Sammy, it's my problem. Let me deal with it).

"You probably haven't even been back home more than ten minutes, have you?"

(Fuck you, Sam. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!)

"And?" Dean prompts, finally looking at Sam and ignoring his thoughts. "What's your point?"

Sam glares, and Dean glares right back. He knows he's wrong. He knows he's told Sam before that all of his effort will go into trying to reduce his alcohol consumption.

Especially after…no. Dean doesn't want to think about it. He's not that bad. He can control it.

He's tired. And he hates his job and every part of him aches and he wants a goddamn drink so Sam is just going to have to deal with it because fuck you, Sam.

"You're just like Dad," Sam spits out.

"It's been six months, Sam, let it go," Dean snaps back.

Six months since they wore all black and saw their father's casket being lowered into a hole in the ground. Six months since Dean heard the words 'liver failure'.

Six months since their father drank himself to death.

Sam's voice pulls Dean out from the depth of his thoughts. "You know what happened. And you're doing exactly what he did."

Dean's heart skips a beat. He clenches his jaw, using all his might to not leap across the kitchen counter and deck his brother. "Yeah?" he asks, feigning calm. "Well, I guess I won't be around for much longer too, then."

"Oh, then I guess since you've decided to go the route of death by alcohol, I don't have to worry about affording your treatment." His voice cracks and he looks away and Dean freezes at his spot.

He hates fighting with his brother but when crap like this gets thrown at him, when Sam fucking emotionally blackmails him, he can't help but get pissed. Sam struck a nerve and he's pretty sure his little brother knows that. They'd been saving up for a transplant when their father's health had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. Insurance didn't cover the whole cost.

He died before they could afford to save his life.

Dean gets up close to Sam. "Look, I know you're mad and all that, but drag Dad into this one more time…" he trails off, his unmentioned threat hanging in the air.

Sam holds up his hands in surrender.

"Good," Dean says, turning around to walk back to the counter.

"That doesn't mean you're off the hook." Dean can hear the anger and exhaustion in his brother's tone. He knows he isn't the only one struggling through their screwed up lives right now and that he should take it easy on himself and Sam.

But all he can think about is how uneasy and restless he feels with all these conversations that they have. And before, it was not like they were swimming in money, but when their father had been around, they'd gotten by. The drinking didn't help matters, but then Dean worked part time and spent the rest of the day working on music at home or rehearsing for auditions, their father was working as well and so was Sam. Things had been good.

And then their life had fallen apart when money had to buy a thing none of them could afford.

For the past six months, they lived on the remaining money they had managed to save up. When their savings had run out and Dean's job just couldn't cut it anymore, he'd been forced to apply for the janitor job and he can't have been more grateful to Jo in that matter.

God, he needs some air. And a drink. Definitely a drink.

Dean faces his brother, heart beating fast and body trembling with the urge to get out of here. Sam's eyes are shining a little, but Dean grits his teeth.

"I'm not, Dad," he says, voice gruffer than he expected. "And I know my limits. So lay off." He downs the one shot of vodka he'd managed to pour and stalks past Sam, picks up his guitar case from near the couch and heads towards the front door.

He yanks his jacket off the coat hanger.

"Where are you going?" he hears Sam ask him.

"Out." Dean slams the door behind him.

~o~

"I'm sorry, kid. Better luck next time."

Dean sighs as he ends the call, resisting the urge to hurl his guitar across the street. He is sitting on a lopsided stool outside the local café. One of the places he tends to frequent.

He'd auditioned at a club nearby. The club had a few regular musicians who played or sang and hence entertained the guests.

The spots were filled; they couldn't accommodate him. Dean had been counting on booking this job. Anything to get him out of that hospital.

He figures he's being slightly over dramatic since it's only been a week, but if he's being honest with himself it feels like it's been months.

And then he remembers Castiel again, like a light in the darkness, like Dean's going to die of a heart attack because his stupid brain is being fucking cheesy now.

When I looked at you

What could I say I felt

'Cause you can, oh can you make me melt

It's true

The song and the lyrics are right there in his head. Like it was pre-written, like it had always been waiting for it to come up. And he remembers blue eyes, light, darkness, and decides to stop thinking altogether.

He picks up his guitar. No more Sam. Or Castiel. It's only him and his guitar right now. This is the one thing that's given him peace in the last few months. If he could, he'd do this all day, every day. But there's never any guarantee as to how much hell can end up making and so the logical thing to do has been getting a stable job.

He still heads out whenever he can, though. Like today. All his worries disappearing momentarily and he can pours his soul into his melodies and imagine that his life is perfect.

Ah.

He sets his open, empty guitar case out in front of him, and starts to play.

He plucks at the strings, getting the feel for it, his calluses brushing against them from years and years of touching and pulling them, and he indulges himself in the familiarity of it, taking a deep breath before launching into the song.

"I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping,

While my guitar gently weeps.

I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping,

Still my guitar gently weeps."

He sings, his fingers sliding gracefully across the fretboard. He rocks along to the rhythm, eyes closed, losing himself as he always does. It brings in a sense of calm he feels nowhere else.

All that exists at this moment is his music.

He hears the chink of coins near him and knows people are listening. Part of him hopes someone listens all the way through.

"I look at the world and I notice it's turning,

While my guitar gently weeps.

With every mistake we must surely be learning,

Still my guitar gently weeps."

There is silence when he finishes the song, the last verse and the last string. He starts, eyes opening when he hears clapping and feels warmth bubble up in him when he sees the small crowd that has formed around him.

He smiles and salutes with two fingers as a gesture of thanks. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a small girl, no older than four with the widest grin on her face, clapping along with her mother. He blows her a kiss. She giggles and runs over to him, placing a ten dollar note into the guitar case.

She then waves and runs back to her mother who smiles at Dean who nods, thanking silently.

He gets up, bows to the small, applauding audience which starts to disperse, people carrying on with their daily lives. Usually, Dean would play more than one song, but he doesn't have the energy today. He packs up his guitar and starts walking, counting the earnings.

It isn't much, but it's enough to get him a few drinks.

He knows it's wrong. It would be smarter to get back home and hand the money to Sam so that he can't spend it.

But his hands are shaking, and he's cold. A drink would cure that.

Without giving his mind a second chance to contemplate, he heads off to the closest bar he can find.

~o~

Stars and splotches of white form in Sam's vision as he rubs at his eyes. He can feel the firm set of his cramped muscles on the back of his neck. He slowly exercises his aching muscles, trying to undo the stiffness as he shuts his laptop.

He's about five minutes past his deadline but he hopes his boss will let it go this once. He hates his job and everything about it. He'd be working on his novel all day long if he had the choice. But he doesn't and it's frustrating.

And it's probably also a job he won't have anymore.

He'd been hoping to come home and talk to Dean about his situation but the minute he'd seen the bottle of vodka (he needs to find Dean's stash and empty it) all he could think about was their father hooked up to machines in the hospital and breathing his last. And in the six months after that, Dean's gone from an occasional once-every-month drinker to a full blown alcoholic. Sam doesn't miss the signs. The tremors, the sudden mood swings, the coming home drunk every other night.

He just hopes it doesn't interfere with Dean's job. Or his health, though to be honest it already has interfered with health.

He just hopes… oh God, he just hopes that Dean doesn't die.

Okay. Okay. That won't happen. Dean isn't that careless. He won't… he won't let it get to that. He's smarter than this. Although Sam's own situation right now feels like he's walking the plank on a pirate ship.

Budget cuts being the plank.

Budget cuts with the smaller, more expendable employees getting laid off. He hasn't told Dean yet but he's on probation, along with almost a quarter of the website company working with him. Which means if they think his work isn't up to their required standards, he could easily lose his job.

Again, he hopes the five-minute delay doesn't cost him his position.

Sam glances at the clock opposite him.

10:54 pm.

Sighing, he sets his laptop to the side on the couch and gets to his feet. He needs to head in early tomorrow for work.

Dean is still out but he is always late when he takes his guitar with him. Sam isn't very worried. He knows that playing and singing to an audience is Dean's way of winding down so he doesn't interfere.

As he walks towards his bedroom, however, he only hopes one thing.

That Dean doesn't come back drunk again.

~o~

Maybe he had one drink more than he should have.

Or maybe five.

Dean has lost count. He doesn't really remember what happened after his fourth glass. Once he had begun to feel slightly tipsy, he'd just...kept going.

He's now rummaging in his pockets for the house key and takes him ten minutes before to realise that he'd forgotten to take the keys when he'd headed out. Ugh, he'll have to wake Sam up. Sam, who won't be happy with any of this.

Grimacing at the prospect of what he might face he knocks on the door, doing his best to keep a steady footing. His attempt lasts all of the five minutes it takes for Sam to get to the door. Dean falls forwards into the flat, ending up on his knees as Sam hastily jumps aside, as though expecting it.

Dammit, he's screwed.

"Heya, Sammeh," Dean blurts as Sam helps him to his feet.

"Fuck you."

"Tha's not very nice." Dean stumbles, pouting, the room doing a lazy spin around him. He blinks, trying to clear his vision when Sam picks up Dean's guitar case from outside and angrily slams it onto the floor in the apartment, kicking the door shut.

"Hey!" Dean yells, the rage at seeing his instrument being handled poorly sobering him up a little.

Sam glowers before deciding against saying anything and walking back towards his room.

"That guitar 's all I have, Sam. The one thing that keeps me sane."

Sam turns around, and Dean is taken aback by the raw emotion in his brother's eyes. "Fuck you."

"Don't you—"

"I will say whatever the fuck I want, Dean. That guitar is all you have, right?" Sam points towards it, a sneer on his face though it looks more like a grimace to Dean. "Guess what, asshole, you're all I have. You keep me sane. And all you are doing right now, is hurting yourself and me by doing this bullshit every other night!"

"Look," Dean holds up his hands in a surrendering gesture. "I didn't mean to, okay?"

"I don't care, Dean. You told me. You promised you'll try and get a hold of yourself. If this keeps going, it'll be you I'll be burying next. And… and—" Sam's voice catches in his throat, "I don't think I'm gonna survive that, okay? So shut up. Screw you."

Sam stalks off to his room with that and Dean is left standing where he is, suddenly empty and a lot more sober than he was before. He thinks of Castiel one last time before he gets to bed, and vows to stay away from all of that, but even those thoughts can't keep Sam's words out of his head. Not for the rest of the night.

~o~

Dean spends the next few days absolutely toiling to keep Sam and Castiel out of his mind, both for different reasons. He hasn't spoken to Sam since Sam's prissy-ass puppy dog words (fuck you, Sam) and everytime he thinks of his brother he feels like someone is stabbing him and he hates that stupid, hollow feeling, so he shuts his mind up before it can think of his little brother.

As for Castiel, Dean stays away from the bathroom when it's his time for a shower. He tries not to peek when he cleans past Castiel's corridor and he tries to forget him altogether. He's never actually asked a patient out; he knows that would be extremely inappropriate but he'd never worried about finding himself in a scenario like that anyway. And, what does he even know about Castiel? That he's got bipolar disorder? That he's kinda shy to strip in front of people?

Yeah, that's about all he's aware of. He has no clue why he has this overwhelming need to have a cup of coffee with the guy and take him out. Hell, the dude's probably straight too.

But damn. Those eyes.

Dean internally sighs at himself as he continues to robotically mop the floor. He's not been doing this long but funny how soon it's become muscle memory. Clean, move, clean, move, clean more and more, go home.

He can't seriously be thinking about Castiel's eyes now.

Blue… stormy…

When I looked at you

What could I say I felt

'Cause you can, oh can you make me melt

It's true

Dean can feel a tingle pass through him. He wrote a song about that. A fucking song. He can't believe it. He's turning into some idiotic dweeb. And he's not finished his song yet but he knows he will soon. He still needs to get the sheet music down nice and proper and write the rest of the lyrics. He already has parts of the song playing in his head. He can hear a studio composition of it, performing and watching Castiel beyond that glass wall…

God, he doesn't even know Castiel. Where the fuck is his mind taking him? What is this (love) 'need to date at first sight' thing? And how cheesy is all this shit, huh? Singing about some guy he's seen just once in his life? If Sam ever finds out about this, he's going to be gleeful. The bastard.

There it is. And just like that, Dean's mood dips. Once again. He ignores the stabby feeling and pretends it's not there.

He stops at a particularly smudged glass window on one of the doctors' offices and sprays some cleaning solution on that. He rubs his washcloth over the dirt, slowly and absently, as his mind forces itself down the Sammy path again. He hates, absolutely hates when he and Sam fight but that's all they know to do anymore. All the time. Every day. Ever since Dad died. And now they have each other but they only know how to be morons.

He needs to do something about this. Their fight. Maybe apologise. Sam's been stretched thin under all that stress of late, with everything that's happened in their lives and Dean should cut him a break. But then again, maybe Sam should also realise that he isn't the only one who lost his father. Because, helloooooo!

But, oh well.

Ah, screw it. Sam should apologise first. Yep. Kid needs to learn not to be so damn selfish all the time. He—

Dean's thought process comes to an abrupt halt when he bangs into something big, sending his mop to the floor with a loud clack. "Shit!" he swears, jumping back and almost knocking his cart down, holding on to the wall for support.

"Hey, moron! Watch where you're going!"

Dean steadies himself against the wall and blinks up to see a man, probably as big as Sam, standing there in front of him. He's older, in a suit, and he's already balding even though he's probably only in his mid-thirties. Oh God, a rich, entitled moron. Again. Dean doesn't have the sass to deal with one of these today.

He bends over to pick up the mop. Better to ignore this bullshit. The dude's never going to be happy with anything. So Dean deigns to apologise. "Sorry, I—"

The man rolls his eyes and speaks before Dean can complete his sentence. "Can't even do your little job well, can you? What did you do to get here, smoke too much weed in school?"

Dean grits his teeth as he feels his face grow warm. He can't retort, not to the patients or their guests unless he wants to lose his job but he's pretty sure he doesn't want to starve. Had they been outside this place he'd have definitely punched the guy. Condescending asshole. Who the hell asked for his opinion?

He swallows and stares at a smudge on the wall that he needs to work on next. If this dude can just finish throwing his tantrum, Dean can finally get on with his job. "I'm sorry, sir," he says again. Apologise like you give a shit.

"You'd better be," the man replies. "And clean this place well. I don't want my brother to catch some infection because of your sloppy—"

"That is quite enough, Zachariah."

Dean flinches at the familiar, gravelly voice, eyes widening as he turns around to see Castiel, who's holding on to his IV pole as he stands a few feet away. Dean had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't even noticed that he'd been cleaning outside that room. So much for carefully making note of this very room and being hyperalert and avoiding staying too long at all costs. This was exactly where today's dumb drama has to happen, of course. Fuck that.

Meanwhile, Zachariah turns to Castiel, who Dean realises, is the brother he just spoke about. Zachariah crosses his arms. "Go back to bed."

Castiel clutches tighter to his IV pole, narrowing his eyes as the blues sparkle from defiance. "No"

Zachariah rolls his eyes. "Just go back, you freak. Don't show me your stubbornness. It won't work."

"Go home," Castiel says in reply.

"You—"

"Go home, or I'll tell the doctors everything."

Zachariah freezes at that, and Dean stops trying to pretend he's staring at the wall as he enjoys the expression on the asshole's face. He looks like a fish, mouth opening and closing, eyes big, and it seems like he either has to poop or explode. As if someone just threatened to kick him on the nuts; and God, is Castiel a ballsy guy or what?

Damn.

And what does he mean by 'everything'? What's going on here.

(Okay, Dean, that's none of your business).

Zachariah clenches and unclenches his fists a couple of times, then, without so much as a glance at Dean, leaves, shoes tapping against white tile. Dean stands there, watching him and his expensive suit disappear, all too aware of Castiel's presence. He can already feel the sweat build up on his forehead and upper lip and his heart is going a mile a minute. Why the fuck is he so nervous? This doesn't even make any damn sense.

He's shaken out of his reverie by a hand on his shoulder and when Dean's brain concludes whose hand it is, he promptly jumps.

Castiel moves away immediately. "Sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"Nah, it's all right," says Dean, waving as casually as he can. "I was just thinking about... something."

(I was thinking about you).

"I'm sorry about Zachariah too," Castiel goes on, wholly unaware of the storm in Dean's head, but his eyes and voice extremely sincere nonetheless.

Dean feels his heart sink. He didn't want Castiel to be a nice guy. He'd hoped he was horrible. An asshole. Someone who couldn't be liked or admired. So Dean could hate him in peace and not think of asking him on a date, like his mind keeps egging him on.

He sighs. "Man, it's not your fault that your brother is a dick."

"Yes, my family tends to be like that."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "You kidding?! Like Baldy over there? What crawled into your collective asses and died?"

Castiel grins at that, a genuine, gummy grin, and Dean's heart sinks even further. Before he knows it, Castiel is extending his hand to Dean. "Castiel Novak."

Dean looks into those eyes yet again as he takes it, his song coming back to his mind and playing on repeat. "Dean Winchester," he mumbles, voice gruff.

"Nice to meet you, Dean."

"Likewise, Casti—uh," Dean bites his lip. "I'm gonna call you Cas. Is that okay?"

Cas's grin widens. "No one has ever nicknamed me before. Thank you."

When I looked at you

What could I say I felt

'Cause you can, oh can you make me melt

It's true

When I look at you

There's nothing else I see

Tell me, oh tell me what are we

I didn't think this through

And they're standing there, holding hands under the pretext of shaking them, and Dean knows that this is it. This is what is going to make him, break him, kill him and save him. All at once.

Cas.

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