Rx: Physical Therapy

Recommendation

Dean withdrew his phone from his pocket. A swipe of his thumb unlocked the screen, and another revealed his list of contacts. The last press dialed a number for the first time. He moved as though in a trance, slow and without thought. It was the ringing tone that rushed him back to reality. Dean held his phone to his ear, unsure of when he'd made the call. Apoplectic with shock, his jaw fell slack as he stared straight ahead, unseeing. Why was he calling him? And so soon. All Dean could think about over the weekend was his time at the bar with Castiel. He had wanted to talk to with him again since the moment they'd parted that evening. He had so many questions, and so many things he wanted—no, needed—to say.

But when Castiel's voice sounded on the other end of the line, Dean merely squawked.

"Dean?" Castiel asked. "Are you okay?"

"Fine!" Dean said far too loudly. "Sorry... I'm fine. Good, even. How are you?"

A short pause unsettled his nerves. "I'm well. To what do I owe the honor?"

"I just... wanted to talk," he stuttered as he searched his kitchen for answers. "See how your weekend went."

Another pause preceded his response, perfectly short enough to be a sip from a drink but long enough to grind Dean's nerves to dust. "It was relaxing, for once. Wasn't on call for the first time in a while."

"That's... that's great," Dean started, but fell silent. Though he had so much to say, none of it sounded right. It was too soon.

"Was there... anything you needed?" Castiel asked.

Him.

"What was that?"

Shit. He groaned as rubbed his eye with the back of his hand. "I said that out loud?"

Castiel laughed a hearty laugh as he said, "You did. It was cute."

Cute. Sure. Maybe to Castiel. Dean thought he sounded needy, or worse, creepy. "I'm sorry, I should have waited until Monday..."

"It's okay, Dean," he said. "I'm surprised you waited this long to call. I would have earlier but was preoccupied."

Dean frowned at that. "I thought you said you relaxed."

Castiel snorted another laugh through his nose. "My definition of 'relax' is probably most people's 'exhaustion'. Got caught up on a bunch of things around the house. Went snowshoeing in the park last night. And caught up on a few medical journals today. You know, boring shit."

"That doesn't sound boring at all," Dean mused as he looked across his living room.

"I could take you snowshoeing some time," Castiel suggested. "It's exercise, but fun. Anyway, what about you? Good weekend?"

Dean opened his mouth to respond but froze with the words on the tip of his tongue. Damn. That was close. He'd nearly let it slip. But Castiel made talking so easy. And a subconscious part of him wondered what Castiel would think of him. He had lied. By omission, of course. But it had been a lie, nonetheless, and as Dean stared at his children's toys organized in their crates and bins along the far wall of the living room, he wondered if had made a mistake in calling Castiel.

"Dean? Are you there?"

"Ah, yeah. Sorry. I'm a little distracted," Dean apologized.

"Would you like to call me back later?" Castiel asked. "I've got no plans tonight."

"No, I'm just..."

Once more, Dean fell silent, unsure of exactly what he was, what he felt, what he thought. But then the words were out of his mouth without a second thought. "I want to cook dinner for you."

If all it took was a little bit of his awkwardness to get Castiel to laugh like he did, Dean vowed to be awkward every minute for the rest of his life. When his laughter subsided, Castiel said, "All that to invite me over?"

"Gimme a break, man, will you come over or not?" Dean chastised as he turned back for the kitchen.

"Alright, alright. When? Text me your address?"

Dean sighed the weight from his chest. "Friday? At eight? And I'll text you."

"Friday at eight, it is," Castiel repeated with a subtle dip in timbre. "Can't wait."

Dean grinned as he withdrew a beer from the fridge. "Me, too." The bottle cap rattled in the sink, tossed with a flick of his wrist.

"Bye, Dean."

"Bye."

He turned back to the living room as he set his phone on the counter, a wide grin spread across his face. He would cook steaks on the grill. Fuck December. Baked potatoes. Sautéed mushrooms. Beer. No, Castiel might want wine. He'd have to call Sam for that. Maybe Castiel would bring a bottle of his own. He should call him back, ask him what he wanted.

The longer he stared at the living room, the worse he felt. Something was wrong. It took half the bottle of Margiekugel before Dean understood what he had just done.

Castiel was coming over for dinner in little less than a week. And Dean's living room was full of John and Sandra's toys.

Son of a bitch.