Repair Me | Destiel

Chapter 5

Cas didn't feel patient. After spending the night in the motel room, he didn't feel like waiting until tomorrow to see Dean again. Luckily, his hunter taught him how to lie, and he knew exactly what to say.

"I'd like to check on the status of my car," Castiel informed the red-haired lady working at the desk.

"Who's your mechanic?" She questioned, chewing her gum rather loudly.

He tried to hide his disgusted frown. "Dean W- uhm- not sure about the last name."

She pointed with a slender finger back towards an opened door leading to a large garage.

A haze of oil hung in the air, sunlight slanting through grimy windows to illuminate the disarrayed dance of wrenches and screwdrivers. Cas, out of his element in the chaos, scanned the room.

There, half obscured by the hulking rump of a pick-up truck, was Dean. He sported a grease-stained wifebeater, his biceps straining against the thin fabric as he wrestled with a stubborn bolt.

He cleared his throat, the sound barely audible over the din. Dean didn't turn. "Uh, hey," Cas ventured, hoping his voice wouldn't betray his uncharacteristic nervousness.

Dean finally wrenched the bolt free, tossing it into a metal bin with a satisfying clang. He straightened, wiping his forehead with a grime-streaked arm. A grin spread across his face when he saw Cas. Not the customer-service smile he had mastered putting on.

"How's - How's my car? The Impala?" Cas stumbled, trying to keep his voice hard and stern. It was just so hard, with the way a small glimmer of sweat swept down his chiseled, freckled face.

"Diagnosis wasn't that dire, should be ready by tomorrow," Dean said, wiping his hands on a rag.

"Right," Cas mumbled, surprised at the blush creeping up his neck. "Just, uh, wanted to check in."

There was a beat of silence, then a slow smile spread across Dean's face. "Thought you might have. Between you and me, that old clunker of yours could probably survive a zombie apocalypse."

Cas chuckled. "That's reassuring."

They stood awkwardly for a moment, the only sound the rhythmic clanging of a wrench from the back. Cas fought the urge to turn and leave.

Finally, Dean swallowed hard. "You busy tonight, Mr. Novak?"

Cas raised an eyebrow, the last name taking a moment to register. He was so used to Winchester that Novak seemed foreign.

Dean flushed a deep crimson, the color spreading from his neck to his cheeks. "Sorry, force of habit. Cas, then." He paused, running a hand through his already mussed hair. "Look, this is probably a bad idea, but..."

Cas cut him off, a genuine smile breaking across his face. "Well, I guess I am now."

Dean's eyes widened, surprise battling with a flicker of something warmer. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, hesitant at first, then spreading into a full-blown grin. "Great. Is my place okay?"

°•■•°•■•°•■•°•■•°

Cas perched on a barstool in Dean's kitchen, the worn wood surprisingly smooth beneath his fingers. The enticing aroma of garlic and browning meat filled the air, a stark contrast to the previous garage-like scent that clung to Dean.

Dean moved with a practiced ease around the kitchen, chopping vegetables with a rhythmic thunk-thunk against the cutting board. Cas watched, mesmerized by the way the muscles in Dean's forearms flexed with each slice. He didn't know that Dean knew how to cook, and frankly, it was quite attractive. He cleared his throat, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.

"Need a hand?" Cas offered, hoping to distract himself from the blush spreading across his face.

Dean glanced up, a playful glint in his hazel eyes. "Unless you want to end up with marinara sauce on your tie, I think I've got it under control, Cas."

Cas chuckled, an amused one. As different as this version of Dean felt, his Dean was still in there somewhere.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic hum of the refrigerator and the clatter of utensils. Cas hadn't realized how hungry he was until the tantalizing smell filled the air.

"This smells incredible," Cas admitted, unable to contain his curiosity.

Dean grinned, a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Family recipe. My uncle taught me - said a man who could cook was a man worth keeping."

Cas felt a warmth spread through his chest, yet a hint of curiosity. He remembered Bobby, or at least pieces of him. The angel assumed that there were just some things, some memories that were so engraved in your head that even the strongest forms of memory loss couldn't even scratch.

They sat at the sturdy oak table, steaming plates of pasta and a simple green salad before them. Dean regaled Cas with stories from his job, his voice warm and captivating. Cas found himself sharing more than he usually did, details about his past that didn't give anything supernatural away. It wasn't just like talking with a stranger, but it wasn't like talking to his best friend either. Something more, something better.

As they finished the last bites of their food, a comfortable silence settled. Dean leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow raised.

"So, Cas," he said, a playful smirk on his lips, "any interest in a tour of my humble abode?"

Cas felt a familiar blush creep up his neck. Was this an invitation? The angel was terrible at telling the difference between flirting and conversation. Same with sarcasm.

Yet, the way Dean looked at him, with a mixture of challenge and something more, was enough to silence his doubts.

"Lead the way," Cas said, surprised by the huskiness in his own voice and the feeling forming in his lower stomach.

Dean stood, his movements fluid and powerful. He gestured towards the hallway, a hint of a nervous smile playing on his lips. As they walked, Cas found himself trailing a finger along the exposed brick wall, feeling the texture beneath his touch. He wondered if this was right or if this would mean anything once he fixed Dean.

They stopped at a closed door at the end of the hall. Dean hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering on the knob. He turned to Cas, his eyes searching.

"This is just a tour, right?" Dean asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Cas met his gaze, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He wanted to say yes, to claim innocence, but the truth burned bright in his eyes.

"Maybe not," Cas admitted, his voice barely above a murmur.

A slow smile spread across Dean's face, chasing away the nervousness. He turned the knob, the door creaking open to reveal a dimly lit yet warm room. Soft light spilled from a bedside lamp, illuminating a rumpled bed covered in a worn but comfortable-looking quilt.

"My haven," Dean said, his voice low and inviting.

Cas caught the tone of his voice, and he felt his pants get tight. An unfamiliar, yet addicting feeling.

Cas stepped into the room, the air thick with unspoken emotions. He looked at Dean, his heart a drum against his chest. There was no turning back now.

Dean closed the door softly behind them, the click a silent promise of what was to come. The scent of lavender and motor oil hung heavy in the air, a strangely intoxicating combination. Cas took a tentative step closer to Dean, their eyes locked.

"What happens now?" Cas asked, the question laced with a tremor of anticipation.

Dean's smile was both nervous and confident. He reached out, a single finger brushing against Cas's cheek.

"Let's find out," Dean breathed out before Cas decided to make the first move and attach his lips to his hunters.

He pushed Dean onto the bed, getting on top of him, their lips never breaking contact.

Dean moaned into the kiss as Cas desperately moved his hands across his hunters body, tugging his shirt off as they took a short breath.

They pulled apart for a moment, a hellish moment, to pull their clothes off.