I

The ordinary tumult of the locker room at quitting time did little to penetrate Dean's trance as he sat on the bench, eyes closed, going over which muscles hurt and which ones merely ached. Dr. Cage's ortho cases always pushed for everything Dean had, but he'd never had to act as both tech and assistant before; a human leg weighed much more than he expected, especially after holding it up for an entire hour.

He was considering a shower, a long, hot one, more for stress relief than to get clean, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Slowly – apparently pulling-cell-phone-from-pocket muscles were the same as holding-legs-for-hours muscles – he reached for his phone and thumbed it on.

Case dismissed. Contributory negligence. Drinks?

The number was still not input into his phone, but the numerous other messages that preceded this one left him no doubt as to whom the number belonged.

Sure. The usual spot?

See you in 30.

Dean could not suppress the butterflies that rose in his stomach; it was entirely possible that at this point they were armed, and the normal means of subduing them would no longer do.

Though there had been no repeat of the utter loss of control that had seized Dean weeks ago, he'd often found his mind wandering as he watched Dr. Novak's fingers deftly knot suture, his eyes occasionally flickering upwards to watch the surgeon's expression of concentration. The surgeon had caught him watching only once; Dean had looked elsewhere so quickly that he dizzied himself, and Dr. Novak had said nothing.

Even Dean's keen powers of denial were not enough to counter the way he hung on every word the surgeon said, whether from behind a mask or over a glass, or the way his face echoed every small grin or shy smile. Coffee on Monday mornings were a ritual now, a dance of avoided eye contact, and Dean found himself irrationally wanting to keep the cups and discover where they came from, piece together another elusive detail of Dr. Novak's life outside of the operating room.

He'd idly calculated one night while sleep circled him tauntingly: he'd spent just shy of a hundred hours with Dr. Novak. Drinks on Fridays had become almost routine, though they ceased being edged with the frantic need to dampen the smoldering edges of crisis. They'd never stayed out as late as the first time; often a single beer and a bowl of pretzels were all they shared before parting ways. Their conversations never delved too deeply into personal matters. When one talked, the other listened attentively, but often while studying the twist of a pretzel or label of a beer bottle. Dean had a feeling that both of them knew how dangerous it would be for them to lock eyes for too long.

Dangerous because Dr. Novak, Dean was sure, felt something ineffable as well, and looking into his eyes for too long might tell Dean exactly how deep it went.

They wouldn't speak of it. They couldn't. But they could drink beer and eat pretzels and pretend that nothing was amiss.

II

Either the surgeon had not held clinic hours today or he had changed into something more casual before reserving their usual corner booth. Dean slid onto the bench with a wide grin.

"Hey. Case dismissed? When did you hear that?"

"About thirty minutes ago, actually," Dr. Novak replied. "I texted you as soon as I heard."

"So what about the…" Dean lowered his voice; the bar was nearly empty, the hour still early, but it seemed like something he shouldn't say too loudly. "The murder thing?"

Dr. Novak shook his head grimly. "I haven't heard anything about that." He grimaced. "I doubt any news out of that quarter will be half as good. Now that there's an official ruling of contributory negligence…" He shrugged. "Let's not think about it tonight." He smiled through the worry lines at the edge of his eyes. "Let's celebrate the fact that you were right."

"I will always drink to that," Dean replied, grinning. "What are we drinking?"

"Are you willing to be surprised?" Dr. Novak asked, a sly smile crossing his face.

"…Sure?" Dean replied, bemused.

Dr. Novak winked as he shuffled off the bench across from Dean and strode toward the bar.

Curiosity piqued, Dean bowed his head to listen to the exchange; it was Lily at the bar tonight, and he picked out her voice as she responded to Dr. Novak's quiet request.

"Sure thing. Starting a tab?"

"Yes, please."

There was the sound of glassware placed on a surface and a bottle being removed from a shelf.

"So, your friend over there…" Lily lowered her voice and Dean couldn't quite catch what she asked, but whatever it was made Dr. Novak cough.

"I, um…I'll ask him…but I wouldn't get your hopes up. I'm pretty sure he's gay."

Dean's eyebrows shot up and he nearly turned in the direction of the bar.

"Ah." Lily did not sound overly disappointed; rather, she sounded amused. "Good on you, then."

"What?" Dr. Novak's voice sounded almost choked. "No, no, it's not – we're not – we work together."

"Man, zero for two." Lily was laughing at herself now, a self-deprecating wistful sound backed by the clatter of ice and liquid in a shaker. "I should shut my mouth before I really taste foot. Here you go. I'll bring you some waters later."

Dean feigned fascination in his phone as Dr. Novak returned to the table, hoping the dim lights would hide the burning tips of his ears.

"And here we are." Dr. Novak slid a tumbler of a cloudy concoction over to him with an expectant air. Dean lifted it and immediately blinked hard as his eyes started to water.

"Whoa. And what is this?" Dean sniffed it hesitantly; there was whiskey of some sort in there, but it was clearly mixed with something else that was impossible to place.

"It's called a sazerac," Dr. Novak said, settling on his bench. "Rye whiskey, bitters, a bit of absinthe."

"Absinthe," Dean repeated, looking into the glass dubiously.

"Just try it," Dr. Novak cajoled, and because Dean was far past the point of refusing any of Dr. Novak's requests, he brought the tumbler to his lips and took a wary sip.

Flavor roared on his tongue like a captive thunderclap, and though he'd been raised on the worst sort of cheap whiskey, he couldn't suppress the shiver of strong liquor as he swallowed, only barely avoiding coughing. "It's a drink," he managed weakly, wiping at the corner of an eye. "And I'm surprised."

"It's a bit unique," Dr. Novak said, sipping calmly at his.

"'Swill' is the word I think I'm searching for," Dean said, blinking hard. "Jesus. I've had some rough stuff, but this takes the cake."

"Should I take that to mean you won't be finishing yours?" Dr. Novak did not sound disappointed as he gestured to Dean's tumbler.

"Be my guest." Dean pushed it across the table. "Enjoy your paint thinner. I'll go up and get something a human can drink."

"Wait," Dr. Novak said, grabbing at Dean's forearm before Dean rose from the bench. The touch lasted less than a second, but the feel of Dr. Novak's bare hand against the skin of Dean's arm made Dean's world lurch. "I…" Dr. Novak looked suddenly bashful. "I get the feeling you're not interested," he said slowly, "but our bartender has expressed interest in your marital status."

Dean glanced over at the bar and licked his lips. "She's a bit…she for my tastes, Doc."

"I figured," Dr. Novak replied quickly, "But, well…you said 'complicated,' and there's an entire spectrum of 'complicated,' so…" He lifted his tumbler to his lips and took a long sip; Dean was astonished to see a faint flush bloom in his cheeks.

"Oh, it's complicated," Dean replied absently as he looked away, lest he make any sort of lingering eye contact. He cleared his throat. "You want anything while I'm up there?"

"Just water, thanks."

III

Dean drew his finger through one of the rings of condensation on the tabletop before taking a breath. "It probably wouldn't be nearly as complicated if my mom had raised us, instead of my dad," he said carefully, lifting his eyes to gauge the reaction this statement had on the surgeon.

Dr. Novak lowered his drink to the table with a quiet clink. "Oh?" he responded with eager politeness, as though they were continuing a conversation that had been interrupted only a few minutes ago, as opposed to two hours ago.

Dean nodded. "Mom died in a house fire when Sam and I were kids. Real young. Dad went a bit…" Dean laughed at himself bitterly, raising his beer to his lips. "A bit. Right. He completely fucking lost it. Really, we lost both parents that night, and were raised by a ghost of the man who'd been our dad."

Dr. Novak didn't interrupt him; Dean could see that the world had started to grow very slightly soft around the edges, and knew it was the alcohol that had loosened his tongue, but he wanted very dearly to be understood. "Sam saw through all the bullshit – Sammy's always been smarter than me. He got out as soon as he could. But I – I just wanted the man to approve of me. I wanted to impress him. And I was – I was already never good enough. He wanted a manly, rugged, masculine brute of a son. He got me and Sammy instead." Dean looked down at himself. "Sammy clearly wasn't going to cut it, but I…" He shook his head and took another long drink. "I was too pretty by half to be rugged, but I could be those other things."

"I think I see where this is going," Dr. Novak said quietly.

"It doesn't take a genius," Dean replied. "I think Dad nearly did a dance when I started…getting into trouble with girls. He started actually acting proud of me. And…I mean, sixteen, man, given enough friction and time something's going to happen and you're going to like it." He swallowed, his stomach feeling sour for reasons completely unrelated to drink. "And so I figured that if I liked it, that I could just…do that and be normal. And maybe Dad would stop resenting me."

"I'm beginning to dislike your father," Dr. Novak said.

"He kept a roof over our heads. He made sure we didn't starve. And he made damn sure that neither of us ever got tangled in whatever he was doing to earn money. He tried." Dean downed the last of his pint of beer and wondered where it had all gone. "For all that, he shouldn't have been a father."

"And what does he think of the life you're leading now?" The question was carefully phrased. Dean shook his head and laughed ruefully.

"That's the kicker. He's gone. Disappeared one day without a trace. I told the cops, but they never look that hard for people like Dad. At that point we were all but homeless, trading labor for a room at the shittiest motel you've ever seen, spending every cent I brought home on booze and food, and…" Dean shook his head and grabbed at his empty glass before remembering it was empty. Dr. Novak slid his mostly full glass of water over and Dean grasped at it gratefully. It wasn't the alcohol he wanted; it was the way to insert a pause, to fill his mouth with something to wash away the bitter words. "If he could see me now, he'd probably be disappointed as fuck," he admitted quietly. "He wouldn't see the job or – or any of it. He'd see me living with my little brother – who he disowned – and close enough to gay to make no difference in his eyes. And you know what?"

"It still hurts?" Dr. Novak asked shrewdly.

"Fuck yes, it does." Dean shook his head. "And it shouldn't. I like who I am. I've got a kickass job, and a bed that doesn't have creepy motel stains, and – and someday I might actually, possibly, find a guy." His glass of water was suddenly fascinating beyond comprehension as the words he'd just said penetrated his dulled thoughts. "I mean, I'm not the mess I was, and even then, I had someone who wanted to marry me," he said, no longer certain he was making sense. "I didn't – get married, I mean. I liked her. Probably loved her, a bit. More than a bit. A lot. But that would have been a huge mistake, and I'm done making huge mistakes." Dean gestured expansively and managed to knock over the glass of water; ice cubes skittered across the table to land on the floor. "Shit."

"I've got it." From nowhere, Dr. Novak produced a stack of napkins and began mopping up the mess. Dean watched numbly, the downy haze of alcohol clouding up the edges of his thoughts just enough for him to know that if he was drinking anything else tonight, it'd be water.

Water that Dr. Novak brought back to the table along with another stack of paper towels, drying a place at the corner of the table with his elbow before thunking down the glasses and going to work on the wet smears across the rest of the surface. "Drink that," he said, almost sternly, and Dean nodded obediently. He'd downed an entire glass before the surgeon finished mopping the table, clumping the paper towels and napkins into a small sodden heap in the middle of the empty pretzel bowl.

The ice water provided at least the illusion of impending sobriety, and Dean's mind sluggishly replayed the ramble he'd just embarked upon with a sense of mortification. "Sorry," he muttered, focusing on the light reflecting off the rim of the glass. "I just – Sammy's heard it all before, but I…don't talk about it to people."

"Nothing to forgive." Dr. Novak snapped his fingers and Dean tore his eyes from the rim of the glass to meet the surgeon's. He'd been intending only to glance up for a moment, but the utter sincerity on Dr. Novak's face made his conviction vanish and his gaze locked with Dr. Novak's. "If you ever need someone to listen without judging or dismissing you…" Dr. Novak looked down, breaking the spell. "My background isn't anything like yours. My entire life has been met with nothing but mild tolerance. But…" He trailed off.

With a boldness that astonished Dean, he reached out to tap the back of Dr. Novak's hand. "Thanks," he said clumsily as the surgeon looked up. "That's…more than I've ever had before. From anyone."

Almost, a threshold broke. Neither of them looked down or to the side, and Dean was sure his entire body was shaking with the pounding of his heart, and their hands lay so close together on the table top that it would be the simplest thing in the world for one of them to cross that line and grab the other.

"It's late," he found himself saying, and they both used the phrase as an excuse to pull their phones from their pockets and look at the clock, muttering useless phrases about how long a week it had been and sleeping.

After all, the pretzels had been gone for some time.