for the love of the game / Destiel College AU

Epilogue

Castiel Novak, Six Years Down the Road

Everything was going bloody wrong. Cas had managed to not only miss his flight, but also missed his connecting flight that took him back to Massachusetts, and then in turn he wasn't able to find a taxi for two and a half hours, leading him to make an extremely rash purchase. He bought a junkyard motorcycle; it was shoddy and the ugliest hunk of junk he'd ever seen, but he was sure that if he'd waited another hour, he might die of boredom waiting for someone to pick him up and take him to an apartment he'd rented near the school he would be working at.

It only took about a half hour for it to break down, so he pulled into the nearest auto shop he could find. He wasn't expecting it to be fixed; after all, it reminded him of his apartment back in London, that is to say- unseemly and frightful. He just wanted to get home, or as close as home could get now that he was back in America. Yeah, London had been great; he'd gotten an offer for the NBA, met some people, but never really connected. He belonged in America. He just now realized it was too late to think about finding Dean, though; this thought caused him pain, but he dismissed it as regret over a love lost.

He dropped it off with his cell phone number, asking the attendant to text him when it was fixed. She remarked that since they were extremely busy, the manager might have to take his bike, and informed him that they would call him when the job was done.

Cas sat on the rough curb and sighed, running his hands through his flyaway black hair. Had he made a mistake coming back to the United States? Or more specifically, Massachusetts, the place of all those... memories? Surely Dean was long gone by now. Wasn't he? Bloody hell, Americans.

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Dean Winchester, Six Years Down the Road

He slammed down the phone, exhaling in frustration. Sometimes, running a neurosurgeon clinic, finishing his PhD, and managing an auto shop was so time-consuming that Dean just wanted to sleep for a week straight. As if he could even sleep for more than five hours before his assistant would call him and say the auto shop needed another repair done. This time, it was a motorcycle. Next time, a Lincoln Continental '78. Who knew? Maybe it would even be a Beetle at some point. God, these rich idiots in Massachusetts.

He spent five hours working on the motorcycle, which some idiot had apparently done a number on. It was basically a hunk of junk, but Dean prided himself on being able to fix anything.

Except your relationships.

Shut up, consciousness, Dean retorted.

He eventually fixed it up as best he could and dialed the phone number that the person had left to contact them, whoever it was.

"Hey, Bradbury Auto Shop speaking. I just wanted to inform you that you are able to pick up your motorcycle at any time, and the cost of repairs will be stated when you pick it up," he drawled into the phone, repeating what he'd said thousands of times before.

"Thank you; I will be over shortly," a voice replied over the phone. Dean stiffened and sucked in a gasp; the receptionist, also known as Charlie Bradbury, looked at him quizzically. Dean shook his head at her and hung up. That voice- God, it was the hottest thing he'd ever heard in his life. He looked over at the redheaded woman sitting at the front desk, already knowing she'd grill him over his reaction to the phone call. He groaned and headed over to her, ready for the inquisition.

"So, Dr. Winchester, found your new boy toy?" She said, propping her head up on the desk. "I heard his voice, y'know. Not to mention, he's eye candy. If I wasn't solely interested in girls, I'd snatch that motherf-"

"Family-friendly auto shop, Charlie," Dean hissed, lowering his voice. "And for the record, you know I haven't dated since..."

"Yeah, yeah, stop talking about your past romantic tragedies. We don't mention Lisa. Also, he has a British accent to go along with the fact that he's hot as hell," she added.

Dean scoffed. "First of all, I don't have any time for a relationship. I barely have time for sleep. So I'm going to give this guy his motorcycle and he can just waltz into the sunset. British Casanova can go date Lisa, for all I care. He probably doesn't even like guys-"

"British Casanova?" interrupted the voice from behind Dean. It was him, British Casanova, catching him using the most embarrassing nickname. Dean looked up at the ceiling and prayed to God that he was less hot than his voice suggested.

Dean was still standing with his back turned to British Casanova (he didn't know the customer's name, what else was he supposed to call him?) and gestured to Charlie to talk to him. Luckily, she got the hint, and said, "Hello, your motorcycle is here for you to pick up, if you will just follow the manager there."

Dean glared daggers at Charlie as she smiled innocently. He'd have to talk with her later about interfering where it wasn't called for.

He turned around.

"Oh. My. God," Dean breathed.

The man standing in front of him was undoubtedly Castiel Novak, six years later, a British accent added, and a hell of a lot hotter, if that was even possible.

___________________

"Oh. My. God," Castiel enunciated, perfectly in sync with Dean.

It'd been six years, and Dean was even more gorgeous. Gaping, Cas managed to retain control of his senses and closed his mouth.

Clearing his throat, he asked "So, British Casanova?" with the hint of a smirk.

"Shut up," Dean laughed, grinning.

Cas felt a grin spread across his face too. Seems as if Massachusetts was the right choice.