When Sam was a scrawny kid, clumsy on overgrown legs that had outstripped his brain's ability to control them, he'd gotten more than his fair share of scrapes and gashes from falling. It would also have been fair to say that part of the blame could feasibly have been attributed to a mischievous older brother with an dangerous imagination; left to his own devices, Sam would never have come up with ideas involving pillowcase parachutes or games of hide-and-seek in salvage yards. It was a credit to Ellen that when she inevitably hauled Jo off for a round of tetanus shots after their adventures, she usually rounded up both brothers for similar treatment. Sam now joked that he was convinced that had she not been around, one of them would have ended up with lockjaw by the time they turned fourteen.

Because of all that, Dean had been given numerous opportunities over the years to explore the many ways of removing a bandage from sensitive skin. He never liked hearing his baby brother cry, let alone being the cause of it, so he'd experimented with soaking the bandage first, numbing the area with ice, distracting him with jokes, counting down, or peeling it off millimeter by millimeter while frantically kissing it better. He'd eventually reached the conclusion that no method really worked, but one was better than the rest: a good, fast yank, no hesitation.

That philosophy was why he'd not really given himself the chance to think or worry about dropping by Castiel's house Saturday morning, a couple of pots and an old trowel in hand. Friends drop in casually, he'd decided; making a big deal out of anything would be falling prey to the stupid suggestions and insinuations everybody else was trying to convince him were true. Cas had repeatedly suggested that he was welcome to come by whenever he wanted, and ignoring that would make it look like he was nervous for some reason. Which he was, but that was his own business, and he certainly didn't want to have to come up with reasons for it.

Dean had deliberately put on worn, comfortable clothes, suitable for kneeling in the dirt—a problematic plan at first, since apparently even casual jogging several times a week could have an impact on the general shape of one's lower body. Many of his older jeans were getting tight in the thighs, making him worry about bursting out of them if he squatted. He had then timed his visit to account for the running club Cas had mentioned, knowing Cas always spent the rest of his Saturdays engaged in "shameless indulgence and inactivity," per his own words.

Dean now sat in his car at the curb, noting that Cas's vehicle was parked in the driveway and that his door was slightly ajar. He was obviously home, so there was no reason not to just march up and knock on the door. Don't overthink. Rip off the bandage. He grabbed his supplies and clambered out of the car door.

He noticed the music just as he knocked on the doorframe. "Don't let them in, don't let them see, be the good girl you always have to be! Conceal, don't feel, don't let them know…" His hand froze in place for a moment while he processed. What the hell? Then he heard footsteps, and the music got louder as the door opened and Dean was confronted with…well, it was Cas, but apparently not a version of him Dean had ever known existed.

Cas had little ribboned barrettes clipped into his messy bed hair, which was even more wild than it usually was. He had an assortment of sparkling necklaces draped around his neck, and the pink in his cheeks was only partly due to the blush of embarrassment heating his face; the rest was a thick layer of bright powdered makeup, only eclipsed by the frankly startling amount of blue eyeshadow caked onto his lids. His lips were also painted, a vivid and glossy red, smeared slightly on the side.

Dean, dumbfounded, tried to say hello, but no words were forthcoming. A slight wheeze came from his throat instead, somewhere between a gasp and a nervous laugh. Castiel's eyes were enormous, and he seemed equally stunned into silence. He lifted one hand, apparently intending to run it through his hair unconsciously, but the barrettes got in his way; instead, the gesture had the effect of drawing attention to the sparkly purple and pink manicure he was sporting on his nails. Both men's eyes fell on the glittery paint, and Dean broke, undeniably giggling.

A moment later, Castiel's eyes communicated clearly the moment in which his brain decided to say, Oh, fuck it. He smirked, pursing his lips like a supermodel and putting his hands on his jutting hips. "I'll have you know," he said, "that this is the very latest in haute couture. I wasn't sure about the color coordination of the accessories, but my stylist is highly exclusive. She only accepts payment in the best mini-marshmallows." He glanced behind him and downward, and Dean finally noticed the small blonde child standing in the hallway, smiling crookedly.

"Dean, this is my niece, Claire," Cas said, bending his knees to lift the little girl in his arms. She was maybe about four years old, by Dean's best guess, and her face was just as coated with makeup as her uncle's, though she apparently favored hot pink lips for herself. "She's staying with me this weekend, since my brother and his wife are away at a marriage retreat. Jimmy likes to wait until the very last minute to tell me about these things, because apparently, as the token single sibling, my schedule is supposed to be flexible." He grimaced, then dismissed the complaint with a shake of his head. "Anyway, come on in!"

"You sure?" Dean hesitated. "I don't wanna, like, intrude on your time with her or anything. I can come back another day."

"I insist," Cas said, voice sincere. "We'd love for you to come have lunch with us! Then again, if the idea of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches doesn't appeal…"

"Are you kidding?" Grinning, Dean winked at Claire, who was staring at him in curiosity. "I love PB&J!"

Castiel grinned back. "Fantastic, then. If you don't mind, I'll be right back. I just need to, well…" He gestured at his face, wincing good-naturedly. "Claire, will you keep Mister Dean company for a moment?" He walked to the sofa and gently dropped the little girl onto the pillows, then turned and headed for the bathroom, waving back over his shoulder as he did.

Claire promptly stood up and walked over to Dean, not a trace of shyness about her. "I'm in preschool," she announced.

"That sounds fun," he replied agreeably.

"It is sometimes," she said with a solemn frown. "Only I don't like it when we have to take naps. Do you have a dog?"

It had been a long time since Dean had needed to deal with the whipcrack non sequiturs in which small children preferred to communicate, but he tried his best. "No, no dogs or cats. I used to have a bunny, when I was little, but now I don't have a pet." He squatted next to Claire, making it more comfortable for her to talk without needing to stare upwards.

"I like bunnies, but Mommy says I can only have fish." She took him by surprise when she suddenly put her warm little hands on his cheeks and stepped right into his personal space, gazing at him intently. "You have pretty green eyes like 'Punzel."

"I do?" He couldn't seem to break eye contact; she had the same brilliant blue eyes as her uncle (and presumably the uncle's twin, her father), along with the same apparent skill in using them to hold people in place and stare into their very souls.

"Pretty, pretty, pretty. I can make you pretty," she murmured, almost hypnotically. She hardly looked away from him as her hand groped on the table beside her, where a bag spilled play cosmetics over the surface.

Castiel's voice startled them both, breaking the spell and rescuing Dean, who sighed in relief. "Dean does have very pretty eyes, Claire, but I think they're pretty enough without a makeover, don't you?" He hurriedly swept the makeup back into the bag, then spun to tickle her under the ribs. When she laughed, he kissed her. "Besides, we're going out to play in the dirt with some plants, and if you paint his nails, they'll just get messed up. Now, go put on your shoes. I've got some rope, and maybe we can make a rope swing in the tree."

"Like 'Punzel's hair!" she squealed, dashing away. Dean stood, watching her in amazement. He'd forgotten how much energy kids had.

"Sorry about that," Cas said, using his fingers to check for any missed hair ornaments. His face was clean, but he hadn't bothered to remove the nail polish, Dean noticed with amusement. "She's firmly in a 'princess' stage. I'm not encouraging it, myself, but Jimmy's a sucker for it. Something about growing up in an all-boy family, with boy cousins and only boys in our neighborhood. He's enchanted by the novelty of it all. Amelia's going to lose her mind if he doesn't stop bringing home plastic tiaras and glitter-covered everything."

Dean shuddered, imagining it. "Amelia's your sister-in-law?"

"Yep," Cas confirmed, grabbing the pots from Dean and leading him through the kitchen to the back door. "She works with horses, training and boarding them, and I don't think I've ever seen her in a skirt, let alone rhinestones and heels. Rodeo-themed wedding," he added as an afterthought. "Anyway, we sort of expected Claire to be from a similar mold, but that didn't happen. Even when she's at Amelia's stable, she's singing to 'her ponies,' braiding their tails, and scolding her mommy for not riding sidesaddle, as ladies are ostensibly meant to do."

"She'll outgrow it," Dean reassured him. "I mean, how many of us actually grew up to be the superheros, cowboys, or astronauts we pretended to be in kindergarten?"

Castiel huffed. "Speak for yourself, Mister Winchester. I'll have you know that my superhero costume is merely out for repairs. I snagged my tights dodging missiles and leading the bad guys directly into a trap." They both snickered, making their way to the small shed at the side of the yard.

"Tights would be a great look with Claire's eyeshadow," Dean teased, happily relaxed and enjoying the banter. The sun was shining warmly, and Castiel's yard had filled him immediately with a sense of peace. It wasn't perfectly groomed or rigid with order; the plots and raised beds holding the plants and blooms that lined the edges of the yard were casually lovely, varied in size and shape, and spilling over with life. One corner of the yard contained a handful of trees, throwing a shadow over a small table and bench that stood beneath them.

"They do look good, but so impractical," Cas sighed, recalling Dean's attention. "Might switch to the full latex suit, at least during the months that aren't too warm."

Dean turned and eyed him. "I assume you mean spandex?" he said dubiously.

Cas blushed hard, redder even than when he came to the door. "God. Yes, of course. Spandex, not…" He spun and yanked open the shed door. Over his shoulder, he called, "They dropped Claire off at six this morning, and she's been going strong ever since. Can we just agree to blame my mortifying verbal lapses on exhaustion, please?"

"No argument," Dean quickly said, not least because the last thing he needed to do was spend time thinking about latex and Cas in the same context. It didn't help that his own mouth, unaccustomed to being kept on a tight leash, was demanding to throw back a retort to the effect of having pegged Cas for more of a studded leather kind of guy.

Cas returned with a long coil of rope in hand. By now, Claire was skipping in a circle in the middle of the yard, chanting yet another Disney princess anthem. "First things first. Let me get this strung over a branch, and she might give us a good ten minutes before we need to redirect her again." He strode toward a tree with branches several yards over his head, tilting his head thoughtfully.

"Toss it over, tie a knot, snug it up tight?" Dean suggested, and Cas nodded. Unfortunately, it was easier said than done; the nearby branches were too close and repeatedly thwarted their efforts to toss the rope over the branch that was the strongest candidate.

"I do have a step ladder, but I'm not sure it's tall enough to help," Cas sighed, glancing back at the shed.

"That's okay, I don't think we need a ladder," Dean said, dismissing the concern. "It's not that high. I could lift you up, maybe." The corner of his mouth lifted as he thought, entertained by the silly mental picture.

Cas folded his arms across his chest. "You may technically be slightly bigger than I am, but let's not be hasty. Why shouldn't I be the one lifting you? I could carry you on my shoulders, no problem."

They stared at each other challengingly. Something about the way Cas was regarding him told Dean he definitely should not underestimate the man, just because he appeared more brainy than brawny. He recalled the muscles he'd seen outlined through a damp shirt, back at the grocery store when he'd first seen Cas out of a suit. His throat felt suddenly dry at the thought of sitting astride those shoulders, feeling the muscles under his thighs, his groin snugged against the back of Cas's neck…

"Maybe I can just climb up there!" he blurted abruptly, voice embarrassingly high. Examining the tree, he had to admit it wasn't really a great candidate for scaling, with rather smooth bark and the lowest branches at least a good jump's height over his head. Still, he was determined to try.

Deciding to start with the trunk, which would potentially be less humiliating than leaping for a branch and missing, he gripped with both hands and tested the sole of his sneaker against the bark. It promptly slipped. Behind him, Cas huffed.

"Really, Dean, I'm not—"

"No, hang on. I got this!" Gripping a little higher this time, he braced his foot more firmly against the side of the tree before lifting the other. Both feet slid down, and he scraped the inside of his arms catching himself from falling. Sensing Castiel's protest, he called, "Third time's the charm!" Jumping a little to get his hands high, he pushed his feet hard into the bark and squeezed firmly with his legs to stay in place. He didn't fall this time, but he had no idea what to do now.

A moment later, a firm pressure against his rear lifted him slightly. "Here," Cas grunted. "You just need to get a little... higher…" He shoved at Dean's ass with both hands, and Dean actually squeaked. Trying to cover it with a cough, he flailed one arm desperately over his head, searching for any branch which he could grab. Cas pushed again, and Dean tried not to whimper. He cursed the fact that the jeans he'd chosen for their gardening suitability were also the ones he'd stopped wearing because of how thin the denim had gotten across the seat; Castiel's hands were incredibly warm, and he swore he could feel each finger where it was pressed into his cheeks. In a moment, if he couldn't get up in the tree, he was going to start getting slick with arousal, and there would be no hiding anything from this position. Friends might help friends climb trees, but ass-groping was a bit much for Dean's brain to handle.

"Unf!" he cried, finally catching a tree branch in his fingers. It wasn't the most solid of grips, but beggars couldn't be choosers; he pulled hard, getting his other hand onto it, then twisted to swing his legs up. With all four limbs clinging to the branch, body suspended beneath it like an imitation of a tree sloth, he noticed that the branch he'd grabbed was thinner than the one he'd originally wanted. It creaked ominously as he struggled to pull himself on top.

"Dean, I'm a lawyer, not an insurance agent, but I know enough to be very nervous right now," Cas called, speaking slowly.

"Don't worry. I promise I won't sue." Finally sitting astride the branch, he looked down and exhaled deeply. "Now toss me the rope."

The first try fell far beneath Dean's reach; Cas's anxious face indicated how uneasy he felt about throwing things that might knock Dean down. "I'm more likely to fall if I have to reach out to catch, you know," Dean pointed out. Cas rolled his eyes and tried again, this time launching the rope more accurately. Once it was caught and in place over the branch they'd selected for the swing, Dean glanced around, considering how he was going to get back to the ground.

"You are too high to jump safely," Castiel warned, eyes wide. "I don't think I can promise to be able to catch you, either."

"Well, then, I guess I have to depend on your knot-tying skills," Dean said with a shrug. He hoped Cas knew what he was doing; he'd never been a Boy Scout himself, but he'd borrowed all the manuals from the library, teaching himself the things he'd never get a badge for knowing.

Castiel gave a quiet laugh, an interesting expression on his face. He grabbed the end of the rope and began twisting and threading, making a knot that Dean had never seen in a Scout manual but which would clearly hold just about anything the branch could support. Pulling the ends of the rope, he slid the knot upward, letting it pull taut at the top.

"Here goes nothing, then," Dean said. Cas's mouth dropped open, but before he could protest, Dean shouted, "Geronimo!" and hurled himself down off the branch toward the rope. He caught it in his hands, slid a few feet, and landed on the ground with a grin. Castiel just stared at him for a moment, shaking his head.

"So, Spider-Man, then?" he finally asked, gesturing toward the rope. "With the web swinging?"

"Bite your tongue!" Dean scowled in mock offense. "I'm a Batman guy! He had a Batrope in his belt, you know. Anyway, what was with the fancy knotwork?" He looked back up at the tree; Cas's knot looked almost decorative, spread against the bark. The style of it also looked rather familiar, but he couldn't place it.

Cas shrugged casually, smiling, but he reddened a little. "I…took a workshop class, once. Japanese, um, rope tying." Something in his eyes…Dean looked back up at the knot again, and recognition dawned on him: an unusual video he'd watched, and greatly enjoyed, long ago. His eyebrows shot upward.

"Cas, you kinky son of a—"

"I thought it would be like origami, or mizuhiki cord winding!" He was laughing, flustered but not ashamed, and Dean couldn't help but join him.

"And when you got there and realized…?"

"The nude demonstration models were a tip-off, obviously," he said, gasping. "But I'd already paid, so…"

They both finally had to stop cackling to try to catch their breath, and Dean pointed up at the branch. "But I have to ask, man. For a rope swing?"

Cas grinned ruefully. "What can I say? You made me worried, and I knew that tie would hold you."

And damned if that wasn't the trigger to send Dean right back into his own blushes, thinking of the various ways that theory could be tested.

Much later, after Claire had swung and sung herself into an impromptu nap from exhaustion, and after Dean and Cas's hands had been scrubbed of dirt and fertilizer so they could enjoy their lunches, they sat contemplating the day's work with satisfaction. Castiel had raved over the seedlings that were his newest discovery ("They're chiltepins, ancestors of the capsicum annuum cultivar, but these have been crossed with a pequin variety for consistency and a more lasting burn!"), and they'd potted enough plants to almost cover the back porch. Once he had managed to stop subtly (he hoped) staring at Cas's hands and picturing them doing naughty bondage things, Dean had worked hard enough to give his muscles a pleasant ache.

"Hey, let me ask you something," he said, feeling relaxed enough to open up a little more.

"Sure," Cas replied. "Anything."

"My, um, friend was asking me a few days ago about some stuff that got me thinking. What do you think is the difference between, like, who you are and what you do?" Cas frowned, pensive, and Dean went on, saying, "I mean, how much of what you do every day is part of who you are inside? I'm not making sense, I know."

"No, I think I understand," Cas replied. "I do think a lot of people probably spend most of their time just 'doing,' not even thinking about why. When I was in school, I had grand visions of what it meant to be a lawyer, trying to make an unfair world at least a little more just. Thought I could devote my life to helping people, working for a better system."

"Not taking on big bad wind farms?" Dean nudged Castiel's shoulder.

"Don't get me started," he grumbled. "But no, not what I had in mind when I set out. It's the very lucky person whose work and personal identity wind up a close match. Think about Claire." His smile softened at just the thought of the little girl. "She's four, and her entire life is wrapped up in being herself. She won't have to worry about doing, or at least being judged for it, for years. Maybe that's why I relish the time I spend running, or on my peppers, or even silly pinball machines. Have to keep my inner Claire from being smashed to bits just because I had the misfortune to become a grown-up." He yawned and stretched lazily in the warm afternoon sun.

The misfortune of growing up? Dean puzzled over that. "I think lots of folks probably wish they could be better at the adult side of things," he ventured reluctantly.

"Mmm, maybe. But plenty of others swing too hard the other way and are miserable. Balance is the thing." He looked at Dean curiously. "You work very hard, Dean. It makes me happy to see you relax, to stop thinking so hard about what you should be doing."

"Me?" Dean barked a laugh. "If you only knew, man."

"I'd like to," Cas said, a little sadly, then glanced away for a second. "Your…friend. I hope they mentioned how sometimes our views of ourselves and others get distorted. I've heard you say some things about yourself that definitely don't match the man standing next to me right now. Sometimes, maybe, particularly if one has a habit of putting himself down…it can be helpful to trust someone else's judgment instead. Someone who sees more clearly."

Dean didn't know how to respond. Cas's voice had been a weird mix of frustration and hesitancy, clearly forcing himself to tread cautiously; on one hand, it made Dean want to shake him and tell him to speak clearly, but on the other hand, he had a feeling that was the last thing he wanted to happen. As long as there was a little ambiguity, he could keep telling himself that there was no way that Cas was saying what Dean thought he was hearing—what he badly wanted to hear, in another world where things like that were plausible.

This wasn't that world, because even though the gang's teasing and Dr. Bradbury's probing had finally brought him around to the possibility that maybe Cas might be attracted to him, he couldn't believe that there was anything real there. Cas was no knothead alpha, reducing him to his sex, but there were still the hormones, the biology, and regular old chemistry. Once he could see past those, Cas would know better, and he'd regret anything that happened between them.

The whole conversation had made him feel more confused than before he'd started talking. Instead of replying, he squatted next to a plant and examined the dirt. A minute later, they heard the sound of Claire's voice calling, awake and demanding company. They went back inside, effectively ending the discussion, and soon found themselves being forcefully led into a highly contentious game of Candyland, forgetting the more serious topic as they argued and laughed until they ached.