Rx: Physical Therapy

Recovery

The weekend passed in a haze of construction. Dean had returned to Castiel's house on Saturday and Sunday to help with the bathroom, and, true to his word, proved excellent with his hands in more ways than one. Tight shoulder muscles stood no chance against his touch, much to Castiel's relief.

It came as no surprise on Sunday evening when Dean asked him out on another date. A restaurant, he'd said, his favorite, one he'd found tucked away in the middle of town and highly underrated. With plans settled to meet, Castiel had looked forward to that moment all week.

And so, at seven o'clock the following Friday evening, Castiel rushed down the sidewalk as he searched for the strange, hidden entrance to the restaurant. He passed it twice before noticing the façade brick wall, circled behind it, and found the door.

A host greeted him and asked for a name. He gave Dean's and, with a quick check of the giant leather-bound book on the podium, the host beckoned Castiel follow him.

Around the corner, the restaurant flourished, a massive expanse of at least fifty tables in various sections with ceilings so high, indiscernible art teased at his imagination. Though he wore slacks and a tie, Castiel felt underdressed. People in their most formal gowns and suits, with several men in tuxedos sat at every table he passed. He tugged at the neck of his shirt and wished he had at least put on a sport coat. God, he hadn't even bothered buffing his boots. An absent-minded hand smoothed his unruly hair, hoping to tame the odd cowlicks and curls.

The tiny table hidden in a dark corner of the restaurant might have been the host's way of hiding him from the other patrons. But when he spotted Dean as he stood from the table, every concern of Castiel's had fled in an instant.

Black boots, slim dark grey slacks, a black shirt, and black tie comprised of Dean's ensemble. Stunned, Castiel stared, the host forgotten. The restaurant itself ceased to exist. For one, infinitesimal moment, there was only Dean.

"Cas?"

Castiel hadn't seen Dean move, but there he stood, his whispered breath on Castiel's neck and his confident touch at the back of his arm. Gooseflesh raced along his back in a shiver, and he sighed so loud, Dean checked the host over his shoulder.

"Hey," he asked, his glare fading when he looked Castiel in the eye. "Are you alright?"

How could answer that honestly? No, Dean, I'm not alright, the sight of you and your fitted pants and huge shoulders make me weak in the knees. "I'm fine," Castiel muttered. "Just... a little light headed. Been a long day."

"Then sit," Dean insisted as he pulled out a chair and the host floated away on long strides. "Did something happen? You look... your face is a little red."

"Is it?" Castiel asked with a crooked smile as he sat. "God, I'm too old for this, I need a drink."

Dean blinked at that, momentarily caught off guard. But then he smiled a knowing grin, leaned in, and whispered, "You look great, Cas." As he stood, the brush of his lips on Castiel's cheek extracted another deep sigh from him. "I'll go get us a few drinks from the bar. Scotch?"

Castiel nodded, the only response he could give, and with that, Dean disappeared.

Whether seconds or minutes passed, Castiel wasn't sure. The only passage of time he marked was the incessant chimes of Dean's phone left at the table. After the fifth text message, Castiel's curiosity piqued. By the seventh message he scowled. And when the tenth alert sounded, he worried.

Who texted someone that much? Insidious whispers of possible people perforated Castiel's subconscious, hints of other dates, of other interests. And why wouldn't Dean date around? Young guy like him probably had to fight them off.