A/N: They finally meet!

Meg had gone to a hotel after the performance, but Castiel wasn't ready to sleep. He needed to calm down, needed to get his ears to stop ringing. And was his heart beating too fast? Maybe the concert had been a natural high. Or too much stimulation all at once for someone who'd never been to such a thing before.

He shook his head, feeling an ache coming on behind his eyes, and he pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

"Would you like honey with that?"

Castiel breathed in and out evenly, and took his hand away from his face to look at the college-age student working behind the counter at the café he'd stopped at.

"Uh, yes please," he responded, hoping that it would get rid of the scratchiness in his throat. Besides, honey was good, and Castiel loved bees. Ironic that he'd found a café that was called "The Beehive."

After paying for his tea, and waiting a few moments, he was given a cup with a cartoon bumble bee on the side, its previous flight path designated with a dotted line coming from the end of its body.

Castiel took a seat by one of the large windows, and sipped at the chai he'd ordered. He breathed deeply, trying to get himself to relax. He felt the hot cup in his fingers, heat radiating down the appendages, even singeing his fingertips a bit.

About to take another sip, Castiel was startled from his reverie, spilling hot tea all over his abdomen and legs as there was a loud crash from outside. It'd sounded like thunder, and then screeching.

"Fuck," he muttered.

Castiel had crushed the cup in his surprise, and hot liquid was also on his hand.

He grabbed a bunch of napkins from the table, trying to hurriedly mop himself up, even as he stood to see what all the noise was. His skin twinged and burned.

"Fuck!" he heard from outside, and then a car door slammed shut.

Oh no, was that Castiel's car that was rammed into in the back? Had someone seriously ruined his 1978 Lincoln Continental? There was a black car that seemed mostly free of damage, stuck in the end of his car, the metal crushed against the gleaming frame.

"Oh god, sir, do you want me to call 911?" the barista asked, her voice panicked, phone already out.

"Not yet," Castiel told her, still mopping himself up. "I'll see what's going on."

Wind blowing against the flurry of napkins in his hand, he stepped outside.

And he stopped dead when he saw who was prowling about the two cars, swearing his head off.

No, no, no, he begged. No, no, no, no, no.

But no amount of begging and pleading changed whose car that was.

The celebrity ripped off his leather jacket, and threw it through the window of the 1967 Chevy Impala, and then kicked Castiel's car before starting to try and pry them apart. Metal squealed, but they didn't budge.

"Uh, sir, that's my car," Castiel told him.

"It was in my way!" he yelled. And then he tried to straighten, and swayed.

Dean Winchester met him with hard eyes, but then they soon zoned out, looking slightly to Castiel's left.

Oh! Oh, he was drunk!

Typical. Of course a celebrity was drunk after a big performance.

"I was parked on the side of the road, you… you… assbutt!" Castiel argued. The tea that had been spilled on his clothes started to chill in the night air, and he stuffed the remaining, and somewhat soggy, napkins, in the pocket of his too-tight jeans.

"Assbutt. Okay. And some side of the road," he huffed. "Now come on, help me pry 'em apart."

Stunned, Castiel got up beside him, and started to push at his car, as Dean Winchester did so with his own. It didn't escape Castiel's notice that Dean's right hand was poorly bandaged with a blue and white bandana.

After a great deal of struggling, nothing happened.

"Great. Just great," Castiel told him, surveying the scene with lowered brows. Dean had collapsed across the hood of the Impala, seemingly strung out and definitely drunk. "I gotta call the police."

"No, no, don't!" Dean urged, righting himself with a lurch. He reached out to Castiel, grabbed him, and Cas just stared, not sure what to do. "You gotta help me, buddy. I can't have the police here. Then there'll be paparazzi, press. It'll be a mess. Please. I'll… I'll pay you." He let go, Castiel squinting at him in befuddlement, and Dean began to go through his pockets. "How much you need for the damage? Or uh, a new car. How much?" He pulled out a wad of cash, and started going through it, fingers clumsy as he counted. "Uh… six thousand? Seven thousand?" He slammed it against Cas' chest, and he found he had no choice but to accept it. "Here. Here, take it."

Castiel stepped back, confused as he clutched the money in his hand.

"Is this seriously your life?" he asked. "You just make a mistake and think you can get rid of it with money?"

Dean shrugged, almost fell and sat back against his car. "No."

Castiel raised an eyebrow, hoping the look would prompt him to go on.

"Okay, not most of the time. I just need help."

"Yeah, you're drunk."

"Smooth observation, baby."

Baby? When had he decided to call him baby? Cas couldn't decide if that was inappropriate or not.

"Look, I'm a mental health worker," Castiel told him, slowly approaching. "I can help you get sorted out, at least for the night. You shouldn't be out here, or on the road."

"Ha, my brother would say the same thing."

"Maybe you should listen to him."

"What about your car?"

Castiel eyed the money, and held it up. "Well, you paid me." He gave a couple thousand back, too stunned and shocked to even think about how much money he was holding and said, "I only need repairs. This car means something to me."

"Yeah, mine too." There was silence as Dean took the money back, and then they stared at each other.

"How come you're not freaking out?"

"I am."

"About me, I mean. You know who I am, right?"

"Yeah, you're Dean Winchester."

"Oh."

"And?"

Castiel went around to the driver's seat of his car, seeing if he could start it up, thinking he could drive it a few feet, get it out of this bit of wreckage.

That idea worked, once he signaled for Dean to get out of the way, and the drunk rockstar finally realized it.

"Now what?" Dean asked.

Castiel was shocked that he was the one supposed to be taking the lead here, but Dean stood with his arms crossed, looking towards Cas. How had he suddenly gotten authority?

"We could go our separate ways," Cas suggested.

"You said something about helping… about helping this." Dean pressed at his head like he himself was the problem.

It was Dean, per se. Alcoholism was a mental disorder, but aside from sobering him up, he couldn't fix him in a night.

"Don't you have a bodyguard or something?" Cas asked. "Or uh… what are they called — handlers?"

"Waiting for me at the hotel. Told 'em I needed some air."

Castiel held his arms out. "Well, you got it."

"Can you help me?" Dean asked.

"You just crashed my car! And you were driving, drunk. It's beyond me why I haven't called the police on you yet. I don't even like you!"

Dean's face fell, crestfallen.

"You don't even know me."

"Exactly." Castiel looked around, and observed himself as well. This tea all over him was super annoying, but he told himself it was just in the moment. It wasn't a big deal. And his car, well, he could get that fixed. That was a big deal, but he'd already shown anger about that, so it was time to get himself to focus on dealing with it. Coping. That's what he always taught his patients. He hadn't reined in his reactions like he should've, but he could control what he was doing now. He even tensed and relaxed a few different muscle groups as he stood there, letting his body know he was fine. "But, I can't just let you be alone like this. You could hurt someone, or uh… someone could hurt you, I guess. You have an address for where you're staying?"

Dean licked his bottom lip, bit it, and then started digging through his pockets. It took him awhile to find the right pocket, and then to find what he was looking for. He handed Cas a horribly crumpled piece of paper with faded lettering, but he was able to make out the address.

"Uh… my car's not going anywhere."

Dean pat the hood of his car. "And I'm not leaving Baby behind. Just let it get towed. We'll take care of it tomorrow."

Cas, with keys in hand, looked at the Lincoln Continental. He'd had it forever, had gotten it from his dad, Chuck, who then up and left. It was all he had left of him, aside from some family photos he didn't like to look at. Could he just leave it like that?

"It's…"

"Just call a tow company now if you want," Dean said. "And we'll be gone before they get here."

"Insurance is gonna want to look at this," Cas said, leaning down to get a look at one of the headlights that seemed like it was close to just dangling off.

"No, no!" Dean responded in a panic. "We can't have that."

"Don't you have a guy for this or something?"

"My people don't want me out. Uh, hold on."

Dean got out his phone and then walked a distance away before pacing back and forth. Castiel heard him muttering, "Pick up, pick up, pick up!"

Cas didn't mean to eavesdrop, but he was soon able to hear one side of the conversation. He stayed by his car, trying to pat down his clothes with napkins some more.

"Look, I know you told me not to call… No, I'm not at the hotel… And you are?... Come on, I got into a mess… No, a girl is not involved… Uh, maybe a guy?... Okay, look, not in that way. But insurance is gonna be all over this, and I was wondering if you could…?... Yeah, I want you to make it disappear… Well, if you don't, Zach's gonna rail me!... Please, for me. I'll uh, I'll do anything, even hook you up with someone… Okay, right, duh, you don't want that. Look, I'll owe you a favor… Yeah, of course I can follow through with a favor… Just help me out here. I'll be in serious trouble if you don't. I'll give you the details after, alright? Towing company, everything… Yes, it was Dad's car… No, it's not ruined. The other guy's car is, and no, he hasn't called the police… You think he should call the police?... Sam! Ugh, I'll get back to you tomorrow, and you're gonna help… Fine… Fine!... Love you, bro. Bye."

"Who was that?" Castiel asked.

"My brother. He's gonna clear this up. Call the tow company, and he'll take care of insurance."

Castiel raised his eyebrows, getting his own phone out, which he realized had gotten spilled with the tea. And it was refusing to work. Great.

"Mine's… not working," he admitted. "Can… Can I…?"

Dean rolled his eyes, but held his phone out.

Castiel used it to call, ignoring how it was a much better model than his own, and was running on very high speeds. The battery probably cost more than his month's salary. It seemed custom made.

He gave him the phone back when he was done, took one last look at his car, and then held his hand out for the keys.

"What?"

"You're not driving."

Dean put a hand on the Impala near the wind-shield.

"You're not touching her."

Cas put his hands in stuffed, damp pockets, trying to seem nonchalant, but really feeling irritated, tired, and awkward. And the headache from earlier was pounding at him with full force.

"Alright, good luck then."

Dean grabbed his shoulder as he passed, and Castiel nearly gasped. How had he not realized how nice his hand was before? Wow, that was a gorgeous hand. Cas wondered if his own hands were bigger. For some reason the idea of that made him feel a bit warm.

The rockstar sighed, and then handed him the keys.

"Not a scratch."

"Promise."