Damn bullies, he curses to himself, turning off the standing lamp in the corner of the small room. He next moves to the coffee table seated in front of the couch, replacing the empty tissue box with a full one out of the supply closet. When he goes over his notes and can't think of anything to add after looking them over, he closes the pad with a resigned sigh and shoulders his bag, leaving the office and telling the receptionist to have a good night.

"See you on Monday, Dr. Winchester," she answers, a phone still pressed to her ear.

He's still troubled as he walks; Jessie is a good kid. A bit antisocial, a little shy, but a good kid. He wants to find those other brats and whoop their asses for being such little dicks. And then maybe find their parents and knock them around too, for raising such monsters.

When he slides onto the bench seat of his car, a 1967 Chevrolet Impala (which may or may not be his pride and joy), the leather seems to leech the tension from his shoulders, letting him relax against the seat. The rapid drum beats of the ACDC song he'd been listening to on his way to the psychiatric firm do just what he needs them to, pulling him out of his head and reminding him that it's the weekend.

There's less than ten miles between the office and his apartment, but he takes the long way, keeping the music up and the windows down. It was supposed have changed to Fall already but the nights have stayed unseasonably warm and Dean revels in the warm breeze as it ruffles his tie through the window.

After a half hour, he's had his fill of the evening air and he parks in the garage underneath his apartment building. The echoing silence inside the concrete structure never fails to creep him the fuck out on late nights, the shadows in the corners too dark and the glow from the artificial lights too stark. He shakes off the chills that threaten to climb up his back when he gets out of the car and makes his way up the three flights of stairs to get to his place.

He's settled into the couch with his favorite brand of beer and an awesome Indian Jones marathon, his button up, tie, and slacks replaced with sweats and an old t-shirt, when his phone nearly vibrates off the coffee table.

He groans, willing it to stop with a hard glare. When it persists, he surrenders and bends forward to place it by his ear, smirking when he sees the name on the display.

"The party you have reached is no longer in service, please hang up and try ag-" he's made it through most of his awesome recording impression before Sam interrupts him impatiently.

"Hang up, my ass. It's hard enough to get you to answer in the first place."

"Well, here I am. Is there something you needed, Sammy?" Dean takes another gulp of his beer, baring his teeth when they contact the too-cold liquid.

Sam sighs on the other end of the line, exasperation the obvious reason behind it. "It's Friday. September eighteenth. You said you'd come meet Jess over dinner. Is any of this ringing a single bell?" Dean can imagine what face Sam is pulling now, those expressive eyebrows pulled together and his mouth in a pout.

There's a vague familiararity to the words, although Dean doubts he ever actually agreed to anything Sam had proposed.

"Not really," he finally answers. "Sorry, Sam. Can't tonight. Got lots on my plate right now." He sifts through the excuses he's used lately, deciding to use a work problem if Sam pushes any harder.

"That's bull and you know it, Dean," Sam is undoubtedly shaking his head in disappointment right about now.

Dean decides to play dumb; "What do you mean? I got this kid in this week and he's a mystery. I gotta do some research before I can help him." Dean's face is scrunched up, praying that Sam buys it.

Fortunately, before Sam can call him on his shit, Dean hears a knock at his front door. "Oh, crap. Someone's here. Gotta go, Sam." He hangs up before his brother can get a word in, wrenching the door open out of sheer thankfulness for having a way out of his conversation.

Sam glares back at him in the doorway, the cell in his hand still next to his ear. Without a word he pockets his phone and pushes past Dean into the cramped room. He ignores Dean's dropped jaw and his rare lack of a smart comment.

Dean warily watches his brother examine the room, not missing how Sam's eyes seem to stick on the open beer on the coffee table and at the muted television. He knows the words that are coming before they leave Sam's mouth.

"Getting lots of research done, huh?" It's hard to miss the disappointment present in Sam's face, but Dean avoids his gaze, focusing instead on the silent, whip-slinging Harrison Ford in the corner of the room.

He slapps on a smile and faces his brother, "This kid Jessie is obsessed with fedoras. Just tryin' to understand." Sam's face doesn't change to reflect entertainment, even with the wink Dean sticks on at the end of his sentence, not that he expected it to. The kid's always been pretty damn stubborn.

Sam rubs one of his giant hands across his face, a sign that he's giving up. Dean itches to get back to his movie and the comfortable spot on his couch. "When's the last time you went out somewhere besides work?" Sam holds eye contact, daring Dean to lie or look away, both instances, in which, would not go unnoticed by his brother.

"I go out all the time!" which isn't exactly a lie. He wasn't sure how many people would consider once a week the same as all the time. "Get off my back, Sammy."

Sam had been checking in on him more and more lately, which was no small feat considering how hard Dean made it for him to get in touch.

"Fine. Where do you go out?" Sam prods, his eyes narrow with disbelief.

Dean thinks about the merits of lying versus telling the truth, both of which probably won't end well. He finally decides on the latter. "I visit the bookstore, okay? I've been reading a lot lately." He chooses to leave out the part about the hot bookstore clerk he goes to spy on from behind the mystery novel section. He quickly regrets his honesty when that understanding, puppy-dog look lights up Sam's face.

"I know it's hard, Dean. But you can't hunker down by yourself to avoid getting hurt again by someone like Benny-"

"Stop right-the-fuck there, Sam!" He's not going to have this conversation. Not now, not ever. And not with that pitying look on his little brother's face.

"Dammit, Dean. You're a psychiatrist. You of all people know this isn't healthy." He has a point. Dean has realized his behavior is not what he would recommend to his patients in the event of a horrible break up, leaving them alone and unwilling to open up again. But the whole "practice what you preach thing" has never been super high on his list of priorities.

He's determined to move on despite the truth to Sam's words. "So you wanna keep doing my job? Or do you want a beer?" He raises his eyebrows, leaving his mouth in a hard line, daring Sam to push him further.

Instead of answering, Sam saunters into the kitchen, fetching a beer for himself and twisting the top off.

"Good choice."

...

It's sweet that Sam is showing such concern for him. Sweet and agonizingly annoying. But he doesn't want his brother to worry about him. A full work load as a lawyer and all the stress that puts on him is more than enough. He isn't gonna be an extra thing for his kid brother to brood about. Afterall, it was his job to take care of Sammy. Not the other way around.

So that's how he finds himself out on a Saturday, missing his apartment and his solitary beers, awkwardly standing in the kitchen of the condo Sam and his girlfriend Jess had bought months before (and he had still yet to see in person). There's a little too many rooms and too much space, at least more than Dean thinks necessary, but maybe that's what they want; maybe they plan on having some kids running around it soon. He realizes with a start that he has no idea if he's right or not, and immediately regrets blowing Sam's calls off so much.

To make up for his horrible brothering lately, Dean feigns interest in the pictures lining the wall opposite the oven, all candids of Sam and Jess and what Dean assumes to be their friends. "Where was this one taken?"

He listens dutifully, like the trip they took to Chicago is more interesting than it is. He even hangs around for the rest of the day, agreeing to go out to dinner with them and barely complaining about the expensive restaurant they decide on.

By the time Dean gets home, he's exhausted. And talked out. All of the limited patience he has for social interaction is long gone. A thought in which Sam would probably point out as ironic as he talks to multiple patients all day during the week. Dean would argue that he doesn't really talk much, he's more of a neutral listener that people can choose to confide in and ask for suggestions on how to deal with everything life throws at them. Which can be pretty crappy stuff.

He strips off his tie and dress shirt, dropping his slacks with little ceremony, falling onto the bed in his boxers and undershirt, too wiped to bother with checking his messages or brushing his teeth.

...

He's able to sleep past ten, which is pretty unusual for him lately. He usually spends at least a few hours tossing and turning after sliding under his sheets, and then he's up before the sun without the aid of an alarm. Maybe Sam does have a point with all this "being social" stuff... He may be able to get on board if it means he can get more than his usual five hours of sleep.

But his oversleeping means that he has absoutely no time to lounge about and make a homecooked breakfast if he wants to make it into town on time. He considers the merits of eating a quick bowl of cereal before he decides that there's not enough time. Then he slips into his favorite pair of jeans and an old, worn t-shirt before he's out the door and flying down the garage stairwell to get to the Impala.

He usually walks to the bookstore, so he gets there in a matter of minutes, and he relaxes visibly when he glances at the clock. He has at least a half hour to creep in the Vonnegut section with a perfect view of the checkstand near the front of the store.

When he gets inside, wincing at the loud bell at the door, he quickly glances to confirm, that yes, the mop-haired hottie is still on his shift, and yes, he's wearing his tie in that crooked fashion that Dean has always considering endearing.

He's behind his most familiar shelf of hardbacks before he really takes him in, and he's surprised, as always, at how relaxed and upbeat the man looks, despite having to work early and deal with customers on a Sunday morning. He pretends to read the backs of books while he cranes his neck around the side of the aisle, smiling as he watches Castiel (according to the nametag he'd spotted a few weeks ago), whose entire face scrunches up in a ridiculously cute way whenever he has to type into the computer to find a certain book for a customer.

Dean waits until he knows Castiel only has five minutes left on his shift before he'll miss him, then he finds an inexpensive book and gets in line behind the woman Castiel is already helping.

The woman gives the man a bit of grief when he informs her that they don't carry the book that she wants, at least not without sending out for it and waiting for it to ship. She ends up huffing off without placing an order and Dean approaches the counter hesitantly.

Castiel doesn't smile completely at his approach, but one of the corners of his mouth do quirk up and his eyebrows jump up his forehead. Dean's sure that he has begun to recognize him by this point and he's pretty sure his cheeks are red from the realization.

"How can I help you today, sir?" the man asks, his blue eyes sparked with interest.

Dean pushes through his embarrassment and face it head on, calling attention to his many visits before the other man has a chance. "Why don't you just call me Dean? Shouldn't we be on a first name basis now..." he looks at the man's nametag as if it were the first time, "Castiel?"

Castiel is smiling now, that smile that makes him feel like Dean's his favorite person though he's probably only seen him about ten times in total. "Alright, Dean," he gently removes the paperback from Dean's outstretchd arm, "what are we reading this week?" Luckily Castiel reads the spine instead of relying on Dean to remember the title he'd scanned only moments ago.

Castiel's eyebrows raise on his forehead when he reads the title and sweat breaks out on the back of Dean's neck with the reaction. "Have you read Burgess' work before?" Dean figures lying will just blow up in his face so he shakes his head slowly, letting his scrutiny show in his squinted eyes.

"Should I be worried?" He asked, honestly.

Castiel laughs at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his teeth fully visible, "I wouldn't say that, but you definitely have to tell me what you think of it when you're done." Dean didn't reply for a moment, so Castiel spoke again, "You're skeptical."

Now Dean was the one chuckling, his breath airy. "Of course I'm skeptical! I feel like I'm about to read about drowning kittens or something!" His response brings back that lopsided grin, and Dean is sad when it disappears when Cas replies.

"I promise you, no kittens are drown-" Cas thinks for a moment, "yes, no kittens are drowned in it. Wanted to be sure."

"Wow, that sure helps," Dean comments sarcastically, but with a grin. He suddenly realizes a few people have gathered behind him, and he's now holding up a line. He's embarrassed but he dismisses it when it seems Castiel hasn't noticed either.

But the man behind him is tapping his foot impatiently, so Dean reluctantly clears his throat and says "I guess I should let these fine people buy their books," as he motions over his shoulder with his thumb. Cas seems to notice the people behind him, at last, and busies himself by scanning the book's code and bagging it for him. Dean slides his credit card and reaches for the paper bag.

Cas holds onto the bag as Dean tries to grab hold, causing him to pause. "Like I said, let me know how you like it." He then adopts a more business-like tone and continues: "Now have a good day, sir."

Dean smiles as he replies, "You too, Cas." He doesn't realize he's shortened the man's name until he sees his left eyebrow quirk up ever-so-slightly. He wants to apologize but the restless man behind him pushes past him to claim Castiel's attention.

Dean waits until he's outside and in his car before he beats himself up for the name slip. Watch Cas-Castiel get all offended by the informality so Dean can't stalk him on the weekends anymore. Dean groans inwardly and pushes the thought as far from his mind as he can. Ignoring uncomfortable memories and thoughts was something he'd gotten pretty good at.