I

The morning clouds had broken, leaving a warm, if muggy, Labor Day in their wake. Dean plunged his arm into the barrel of ice to fish out a beer. The shock of the cold against his skin was a pleasant contrast to the heat of the day, and his fingers grew numb before they closed around the neck of a bottle hidden in the slurry of ice and water.

Twisting the lid from the bottle, Dean scanned the park, locating the clusters of people scattered throughout. Most of the other surgical technologists were gathered by the pond, watching an unseasonably late clutch of adolescent ducklings. Sam hung at the edge of the group with Jess, dutifully fulfilling the role of "awkward plus-one at a company picnic." It appeared that Billing was trying and failing to start a volleyball game, and that most of the surgeons were sequestered in a gazebo, attention either glued to their phones or their paper plates of picnic fare.

Dean took a step towards the other techs at the pond before a lone, dark-haired figure on the other side of the pond caught his eye. He was sitting under a tree, apparently watching the proceedings, and his posture as well as the angle of the beer bottle when he drank from it indicated he'd been there for some time. Dean squinted. From this distance, he didn't recognize the person – strange, given how small the staff at the surgery center was. Dean knew nearly everyone by sight if not by name.

On impulse, Dean grabbed another beer from the ice barrel before striding purposely toward the tree.

"Hey," he said casually as he approached. The man looked up in mild surprise. Dean blinked and the shy smile that leapt to his face was too honest to suppress. This close, Dean still didn't recognize him, but the several days of scruff on the stranger's cheeks combined with the lines by his eyes when he smiled did interesting things to the pit of Dean's stomach. He took another few steps and held out the second beer. "I'm Dean."

The stranger blinked, slightly puzzled, and as he reached for the proffered bottle the sunlight caught at the cerulean blue of his eyes in such a way that the pleasant tumble in Dean's stomach turned into a yawning plummet of belated recognition. He swallowed, his tongue suddenly leaden in his mouth. "And you're Dr. Novak," he said in a slightly strangled voice.

"Last I checked," Dr. Novak said with another small smile. "Thanks." He lifted the beer in a salute.

Dean realized he was staring and he bowed his head for a moment to scratch at the back of his neck, words trying and failing to present themselves for duty.

"I worked with you last week, didn't I?" Dr. Novak asked, squinting up at Dean. He held up a hand to shade his eyes from the sun, and out of courtesy as much as to compensate for his inexplicably wobbling knees, Dean folded himself onto the ground beside the surgeon.

II

"Pretty sure everyone just thinks I'm some random guy who wandered into the picnic and won't leave," Dr. Novak said with a quiet chuckle. Dean took another hasty swallow of his beer to cover his confusion at the sound; five minutes ago he'd have pitted his paycheck against Dr. Novak even knowing how to smile, let alone laugh. "I'll probably be 'the new guy' for months. That's what I get for being a wallflower, I suppose."

"What brought you to Summit?" Dean asked, curiosity managing to overpower his shock.

"Chance," Dr. Novak said, shrugging. "And a headhunter, I suppose." He smiled down at his knees at the small jest, and Dean coughed at the ridiculous flutter in his chest. "Really, it came down to the fact that there was nothing keeping me in Seattle, and the chance to turn over a new leaf here. So here I am."

"Seattle, huh? What did you do there?" Keeping the surgeon talking was suddenly foremost on Dean's list of important things to accomplish.

Dr. Novak shrugged. "School, college, med school, residency, fellowship – pretty much everything. Was on the heart team at Overlake Hospital for a year before I left." He shook his head. "High stress. Way too high. Turned me into a royal douchebag, if you believe my ex." Raising the beer bottle to his lips, he added, with a slightly bitter cast, "He left me a while back. Said I didn't know how to 'turn off' when I got home."

"'He?'" Dean asked, his mouth speaking before his mind could decide whether it was a good idea.

Dr. Novak lowered the bottle, expression suddenly guarded. "Is that a problem?"

"What? No," Dean replied hurriedly, feeling suddenly cold. "God, no. Not at all. I just –" He groped for the words he wanted so desperately to say. "It's hard to find other people who are open about that, in this part of the country."

Looking significantly more relaxed, Dr. Novak nodded, with an appraising sidelong glance that made Dean wish he could take back the words he'd said. "And have you been looking?" he asked slowly.

Dean swallowed, suddenly fascinated with the pond in front of him. This wasn't Sam or Jess, or even Jo, any of whom he could casually joke with, the careful foundation of trust already laid. "It's complicated," he said finally, surprised by how flimsy his voice sounded.

"Ah." Dr. Novak's voice was mild; Dean didn't dare look to see what expression matched it. "Complicated and…quiet, I take it."

Dean nodded. "More or less." He chanced a look back at the surgeon, who was contemplating the ripples dancing on the surface of the pond in front of them.

"How long have you been a scrub?"

Grateful beyond measure for the subject change, Dean took another long swallow of his beer to wet his lips. "Going on four years now."

"Really?" Dr. Novak sounded surprised. "What did you do before?"

Dean was used to the question; he was not used to the impulse to be honest. He hesitated, taking a readying breath. "Road construction. Odd jobs." He looked down at his hands. "Pretty much anything that didn't need a high school diploma or a social security number."

It was clearly not the sort of answer Dr. Novak expected. "You're joking," the surgeon said after several beats of silence, disbelief plain in his voice.

Dean shook his head. "I, uh…I used to have a rough life." He nodded over at the group of techs on the other side of the pond. "If it wasn't for my brother and his girlfriend, I'd probably still be living it." When the surgeon didn't say anything more, he chewed his lip for a moment before continuing. "Jess, there – she's been a tech for years, and she helped me get my –" he almost saidGED before biting it back – "certification, after we moved here for Sam when he got into Kansas State for medical school." He nodded faintly. "They let me live with them while I got my feet under me. They're probably the reason I'm not facedown in a ditch somewhere."

He chanced a look to the side; Dr. Novak was staring at him intently. "I never would have guessed," the surgeon said slowly. "You seem so…grounded."

Dean scoffed. "That's a new one. I usually hear 'cocky.'"

Dr. Novak exhaled in a soft laugh. "That, too." He glanced to the side, catching Dean's eye. "Most techs at Summit seem scared of me. You're the first that doesn't."

Dean smiled gamely. "Takes a lot to scare me. You'll have to do better than that."

III

The three empty beer bottles stood in a line between them, the late afternoon sun glinting from the brown glass as the shadows shifted in the wake of Dr. Novak's wild gesticulations.

"It's not that I don't like using a tech," he said seriously. "Just that I got used to working without one. All the techs I've worked with prioritize assisting full surgeons over fellows, and when I was a full-fledged surgeon – emergency heart cases are huge. Two or three tables, sometimes, or more – and if I need something now and the tech is focused on another surgeon –"

"Dude, I scrub heart cases when I'm taking call for St. Luke's," Dean interrupted. "If a tech can't keep up with two surgeons and a PA, he needs to go back to carpal tunnels and tonsils."

"You scrub for St. Luke's, too?" Dr. Novak asked.

"I take call on holidays," Dean corrected. "Hardly ever get called in and I get paid for sitting on my ass at home. But just because I spend most of my time scrubbing foreverectomies and eternal vein strippings doesn't mean I can't hustle."

"Hey," Dr. Novak protested, but with a smile, "that vein stripping would have gone smooth as butter if someone hadn't dropped the vein hook."

"Pretty sure that was the surgeon who dropped it," Dean pointed out, "on account of him not letting me pass him anything because he doesn't like using a tech."

"I let you pass me things."

"Only because I didn't want you throwing my sharps around the room, so I held them hostage."

"Throwing? I'm throwing things now?" Dr. Novak looked thoroughly amused.

"Give it another week and my story will be that you threw the vein hook at me in a fit of rage over the weitlaner size," Dean assured him with a grin.

"You're going to scare all the techs away," Dr. Novak warned.

"They're already scared," Dean pointed out. "Looks like you're stuck with me."

"Woe betide me," Dr. Novak replied drily. He looked down at his hands, and a thread of confusion wound around the warmth in Dean's middle as the surgeon's face fell slightly. "In that case, can I apologize in advance for my…" Dr. Novak trailed off and he huffed out a sigh. "I know I'm not easy to get along with," he said finally, looking back up. "It's something I'm working on. It's hard to maintain a behavioral filter when you've got a vein flayed open, and I've…developed bad habits."

Nodding, Dean licked his lips. "I get it," he said, the words feeling inadequate. "You do your thing. If you need to curse someone out to feel better, I've got a thick skin." He cracked a smile. "My entire purpose is to make things easy for the surgeon."

IV

"So who were you flirting with the entire time?" Sam asked from the back seat of the car as Dean backed out of the parking space.

It was several seconds before Dean realized the question was aimed at him. "I wasn't flirting with anybody," he replied in confusion.

"Dean, I've seen you flirt before. You were in hardcore flirting mode."

"That was Dr. Novak. I was being sociable," Dean stressed. "He's new and doesn't know anybody."

"Isn't he the asshole you told me about?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow where Dean would see it in the rearview mirror.

"He's not an asshole," Dean replied, surprising himself.

"He made Jo cry," Jess pointed out. "He's kind of an asshole."

"No more so than Angeles, when he's in a bad mood," Dean insisted. "He's actually a really nice guy. You two would like him."

"Right," Jess said dubiously. "I count my blessings that Mondays are my days with Dr. Milton, because it means I'll never have to go to Novak's room. Didn't he drop something and blame you for it?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "It's possible I exaggerated the story to make it sound good," he admitted. "Trust me. I spent the afternoon talking with the guy. He knows he's a douchenozzle in the operating room. That's how he vents the stress. He's taking apart someone's circulatory system. He's allowed to be stressed."

"Maybe, but it doesn't give him a free pass to be a dick to his techs," Jess said firmly.

"No," Dean conceded, "but – look, I'm not championing the dude. I'm just saying that he's like a completely different person when he doesn't have the scrubs on. He's almost someone I could hang out with. That's all."

"Almost?" Sam asked.

"He's a surgeon," Dean pointed out. "Surgeons don't hang out with techs. It's like a law of nature."

"He's right," Jess said to Sam. "They usually won't even go to the lounge to eat lunch with the techs and nurses. It's an unwritten rule, even if they have favorites."

"You make it sound like high school all over again," Sam said, shaking his head.

"No," Dean disagreed. "It's a royal court. The merchants don't dine with the nobles – and anyone with letters after their names are nobles." He nodded to himself, pleased with his analogy. "The noble might even like the merchant – but he wouldn't ever bring one home."

"Not sure I like being a noble in your scenario," Sam said as he settled back in his seat. "Does that mean I have to dump my merchant girlfriend?"

"Watch who you're calling a merchant, noble boy," Jess remarked, leaning over as much as her seat belt would allow to lay her head upon Sam's shoulder.

"No necking in my car," Dean called back, and laughed as Sam planted a noisy kiss on Jess's forehead. He accelerated onto the freeway into the afternoon sun, the asphalt rolling away as they headed towards home.