Rx: Physical Therapy

Alternatives

Quarter after eight.

Shit.

Castiel took a sharp turn around the corner, his old Charger hugging the corner with precision. Soccer practice had gone too long. And Jean had wanted to talk to her coach after. By the time he had dropped her off at Hannah's, the twenty minutes it would take to get across town would make him twenty minutes late. He'd texted Dean to let him know. But again, he'd lied, using an on-call emergency at the hospital as his excuse. That left him with more than a sour taste in his mouth, but Jean came before anyone and anything. She had to. No one else would put her first.

The tires chirped as Castiel accelerated around the last corner, and a hard stop slid the two-tone red and black car to a halt in front of Dean's house. He must have heard him pull up, for when Castiel bounded from the car with his bottle of wine in hand, Dean opened the front door of his house and ventured onto the porch.

At the top of the stairs, Castiel huffed an exhausted breath as he handed the bottle over. "I... am so sorry."

"It's not a big deal, Cas, don't worry about it," Dean said as he took the bottle. "Really, the steaks only take a few minutes, everything else is cooking. Come in."

A wave of relief washed over him as Castiel followed Dean into his home. With his shoes and coat left in the entry hall, he rounded the corner and found a large living room that gave way to a neat kitchen. "You live here? By yourself?"

From the kitchen, Dean said something Castiel could hardly hear over the exhaust fan above the stove. What he did hear made little sense—something about having roommates at one point—but Castiel didn't think to ask any further. If Dean wanted to keep parts of his past to himself, that was fine with him. After all, Castiel had his secrets. Why would Dean not have a few of his own?

As Castiel continued to observe, something out of the corner of his eye grabbed his attention. Two bar stools at the center island of the kitchen stood side by side, their leather seats worn with use, a sign of their age. But the faded texture wasn't what caught him by surprise. On the floor between the two chairs lay a dark plastic figure. Castiel approached the counter as Dean turned to him with the open bottle of wine and a glass poured half way.

When he knelt to the floor, Castiel reached for the figure and turned it over to discover a faded yellow symbol on its chest; Batman. As he stood, he straightened the figure, righting its crumpled legs, then set it on the counter.

He saw it. Dean's cursory glance passed over the figure with a flick of his eyes, but he said nothing. When Castiel looked to the figure for a long moment, Dean followed him.

As if bitten, Dean startled and snatched the figure from the counter. "It's... it's a..."

"Batman."

"Yes!" Dean squawked. "Batman. Um... I collect action figures," he stuttered as he gestured with the toy. "Like rare ones."

Castiel worried his lie ran deeper than necessary. "So, you take them out of their packaging and play with them until they're faded and worth nothing?"

Dammit. He hadn't meant to put Dean on the spot like that. But he had. Tension crawled along his spine as that familiar sting of embarrassment burned his cheeks. "I'm sorry, that was rude," Castiel pleaded, gaze averted.

"I don't have an answer for that one," Dean admitted with an annoyed glare. "I'm not sure why I took him out. Box might have been damaged," he said as he shrugged and turned back to the stove top.

Great, Castiel. Excellent way to start the evening. Call out the guy you're interested in on his bullshit. That'll turn him on for sure. Nicely done.