how about an excerpt from chapter 1 nobody asked for
Furnace-hot, Cas moves in next to him. āDo you want me to take over so you can sit? Forgive me, but... I can see youāre in pain.ā
Which sends Dean's hackles up instantly. Old habit. Bitchy one, too. Miles long resentment of people telling him what he is and isnāt capable of, based on their assessment of how he has to live his own trashfire life. āIām good,ā he bites out, clipped.
āI... Fuck.ā Cas rounds down on himself, somehow both pathetic and adorable. āThat was the wrong thing to say to you.ā
āNo. No, itās just...ā Fermented bitterness bubbling up, the toxic slime of having to defend his competence to abled-bodied looky-loos harbouring a bunch of stupid assumptions. āItās a sore spot. Iām sorry. You mean well, but... I got this.ā He offers up a placating, close-lipped smile.
Cas sighs. Nods. Doesnāt straighten out. āLet me explain. I know youāre capable. Clearly,ā he says, looking around the whole room, as if Deanās spotless kitchen is indicative of anything other than an OCD streak. āBut, Iām a massage therapist, and I work primarily with people who are in pain. I know it when I see it, and sometimes I... overstep.ā
Massage therapist? Dean gawks, again. What kind of wet dream is this guy? That has to be awkward as hell for his clients. Mr. Huge nā Handsome with his gigantic mitts all over the tenderest body meats? Jesus H. Christ. āYou feel people up for a living, huh?ā Dean teases.
Turns out they can both say stupid things.Ā
Cas reaches for his beer and gives him a cold (massive) shoulder. āNot that kind of massage." Thereās resignation in it. Like every loser asshole heās ever told about his work has made the same godawful joke.
āYouāve... Youāve heard that one before.ā Dean, defeated, notices a splotch of oil he missed when he last sponged the stovetop.Ā
āAt least you havenāt said anything about a happy ending.ā Blue eyes cut sidelong at him. āYet.ā