Archive of Our Own

It still manages to astonish Dean how well and thoroughly one’s life can get fucked into little pieces in a manner of seconds. All it takes is one afternoon, a couple of faulty harness clips, and you’re falling from an 80-foot-high American sycamore tree, your last thought reserved for hoping you didn’t just brain someone with the chainsaw you dropped on your way down.

80 feet wasn’t quite high enough for him to say his prayers before he hit the ground, but it was high enough to completely shatter his entire pelvis, push his femur right through his right thigh and damn near kill him before he ever even got to the hospital. It was high enough to end his 6-year arborist career, paralyze him for over a year, and give him a permanent limp after he relearned to walk. Apparently, 80 feet was pretty damn high.

Though it wasn’t all that bad if you consider the hefty sum he got from the malpractice lawsuit he filed. According to his lawyer, only supplying your workmen with rusted, wobbly harness clips was frowned upon. His compensation is what got him out of his dump of a lacking FDA requirements apartment to a house of his own that didn’t require him to walk up three flights of stairs.

It wasn’t much of a looker, his house. He was always frugal with his money and with hospital bills and physical therapy fees up the hoo-ha, even after his insurance paid off a large portion of it, he didn’t want to waste his money on a fancy house for just himself. His little two-bedroom, one bath, one wall that he may or may not tear down so he can get one of those open concept kitchens the folks on HGTV rave about was enough for him.

With his job prospects in the toilet, he’s found himself running a fucking Etsy shop, like a stay-at-home military mom, selling wood-burned portraits of people’s pets. But honestly ,doing a few portraits of some stranger’s Labrador retrievers isn’t half as bad as his secondary job. A babysitter.

It started out as a one-time thing. He had been skirting the edge of flirting and just being nice with his neighbor Lisa for a while. She was gorgeous, of course. Tan skin, dark hair, and a radiant smile. She was kind and funny. Not to mention her favorite band was Black Sabbath. Dean was drawn to her, but she had a kid and he didn’t want to saddle her and her kid with his shitty life.

Lisa liked him, though, that much was obvious from the way she cornered him in the kitchen, running a delicate manicured hand up and down his arm, as she thanked him for fixing her sink. At that moment, he probably would have slept with her too. She was nice and warm and made him feel like maybe he did matter, if only a little, and hey, there’s nothing wrong with a little fast and casual, the kid would never even have to know. But his dick hasn’t gotten hard since he fell.

He gave Lisa a short, “It’s me not you” speech giving her the abridged rundown on his shitty life and his broken dick. She gave him a hug with only a little bit of pity sprinkled in. And then a few weeks later she shows up at 7 am and sacks the kid on him for a day.

His name is Ben and he’s four years old. His preschool is closed due to a lice outbreak. She checked, and no, he doesn’t have lice, don’t worry.

“Can you pretty please watch him while I’m at work? I’ll bring pie back if you do,” She bats her eyelashes pleadingly. Dean would have said yes, eyelashes batted or not, but a little groveling never hurt.

“Uh, hi,” Dean says once he is alone with the kid. Lisa had left him with a kiss on the cheek and a warning to be good for “Mr. Dean.” The moniker made Dean want to puke.
Ben was sitting on the couch, still bleary-eyed from having just woken up. He’s got a fuzzy Paw Patrol blanket clutched in his hand. A Dalmatian in a fireman’s costume smiling heroically on the front.

“You eat breakfast?” Dean asks.

“No,” Ben squeaks, shaking his head as he speaks.

“Uh,” Dean racks his brain for what he’s got in the kitchen. He wasn’t big on having to make his own breakfast these days.

He does have a healthy stock of breakfast cereals, though. He’s sure Lisa would balk at the sugary ones he eats nearly daily.

He opts for one of the healthier options in his pantry, “You like Rice Krispies?”

“With sugar?” The boy inquires with a cheeky grin.

“Damn it,” Dean curses under his breath. Thwarted already. “Sure, kid. Why the hell not?”

“That’s a bad word, Mr. Dean!” Ben gasps.

“Okay,” Dean says. Ben just giggles at him. “And just call me Dean, capisce? None of this Mr. Dean crap.”

“What’s capisce?” Ben asks as he follows Dean into the kitchen, blanket still in hand.

“It’s Italian for ‘Listen to Dean cause he’s smart,’” Dean replies.

“Really?” Ben asks, eyes wide.

“Yup.”

They eat twin bowls of Rice Krispies with way too much sugar, but Dean reckons it’s fine since he accidentally bought fat-free milk. It balances it out, obviously.

“I like cereal,” Ben confides, like it’s a secret midway through their meal.

Dean snorts around his spoon, “You like sugar.”

“Mhm,” Ben nods, his mouth too full to speak.

Dean plops the kid in front of the television, Martha Speaks playing on PBS Kids. He lets the kid rot his mind while he sets up his wood-burning kit on the fancy TV tray he splurged on so he can do his work sitting in his fluffy recliner.

“Ben,” Dean says.

His own voice startles him for a moment when he realizes he’s using his “Mom” voice. At least, that’s what Sammy would call it when he was a kid. He hasn’t used that voice in years.

Ben reluctantly diverts his attention away from the cartoon and to Dean.

“I need you to listen to me carefully, okay?” He waits for Ben to nod, eyes wide, before continuing on. “You see that stuff on my table? The pen that’s plugged into the wall? You cannot touch that. You hear?”

“Don’t touch the pen,” Ben repeats.

“Right,” Dean confirms. “It gets hot. It will burn you, and that will hurt.”

“I don’t wanna hurt,” Ben gasps.

“Then don’t touch the pen, okay?”

“Capisce?” Ben asks with a smile.

“Yeah, kid, capisce.”

Dean finished up his current project. A portrait of a dandy-looking poodle named Elmo. A poodle who apparently had 25,000 followers on Instagram. Okay.

One more episode of Martha Speaks and an episode of Arthur had passed, and Ben was looking bleary-eyed with the corner of his blanket in his mouth.

“Christ,” Dean mutters. TV really does rot the brain. “Hey, kid. How you feel ‘bout running around in the backyard for a bit?”

“Okay!” Ben yipped. He stood up in a flash and made a beeline for the back door.

Dean stood up, his legs stiff and sore after sitting for so long. He massages his thighs for a moment, wishing he could take a few hits with his vape pen. Getting stoned with a kid in the house is probably ill-advised, though. He’ll just have to settle for a pain pill or two.

“You play, too?” Ben asks once Dean releases him to the yard.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” Dean apologizes sincerely. He’s mostly gotten over the disappointment his injury brings him. The things he can’t really do anymore. But this is a new kind of sting. “You know how I have to use a cane sometimes? When I walk over to your Mommy’s house?”

Ben nods, “'Cause you fell and got a bad owie.”

He’s seen Dean with his cane and knows he uses it because he’s hurt. Lisa gave him the kiddie version of Dean’s story once he started asking questions about why Dean was so weird.

“Yeah, I did get a bad owie,” Dean smiles. “It makes it hard to play. I can’t run around like you.”

“That’s okay!” Ben replies cheerily. Unphased. Dean marvels at the optimism only a child can have. “We can play doggies.”

Dean is met with a nice-sized stick in his hands.

“You throw!” Ben demands.

So, Dean did. He sat down on the rickety plastic chair he got from the Dollar Tree and threw the stick over and over, much to the kid’s amusement. The boy ran to the stick, letting out an imitation of a dog bark.

Dean marveled at the kid’s lack of inhibition. His utter freedom to just growl like a dog without feeling held back by typical convention. Kids were funny that way. He tried to remember if he ever liked to play pretend as a kid. If he ever pantomimed being a dog, or a cat, or hell, even a dinosaur. His memory was getting hazy when he thought that far back. Sammy liked to play grocery store when he was little. He always made Dean be the customer and would force him to buy outrageously expensive items. Seriously, cans of beans cost upwards of $300 at Sammy’s Super Mart. He did accept food stamps, though, which was a big relief for eight-year-old Dean’s budget.

Ben grew tired of playing doggies after about ten minutes and declared he was a human again. Dean chuckled fondly at the boy but silently thanked his lack of tenacity as his arm was feeling a bit tired from the constant throwing motion.

“Whatcha want to play now, buddy?” Dean asks.

“I’ll make you a pie!” Ben shouts. “You like pie.”

“I do like pie,” Dean laughs. “How are you going to make one?”

“We need mud,” Ben states.

Dean hauls himself off his chair and walks over to the side of the house where the water spout is.

“You see this, Ben?” Dean says. “I’m gonna turn the water on for a bit so you can have some mud. Don’t touch this without my permission, you hear?”

“Yes, Dean,” Ben nods excitedly. “Turn it on! Turn it on!”

“Okay, okay, hold your horses,” Dean chuckles. Then, as an afterthought, he adds. “We gotta get you something else to wear, too.”

The thought of sending Ben home to Lisa in mud-stained clothes was not a good one. He can already hear Lisa’s gasp of horror at the thought of Ben dirtying his fancy pajames.

Dean turns the spout on, and Ben shrieks with glee, jumping up and down, cheering happily that Dean has paid his water bill. Okay, maybe that wasn’t why he was cheering, but that’s why Dean was.

“Come on,” Dean waves Ben over to the back door. “We’ll get you one of my t-shirts.”

Only a few short minutes later, Ben was slinging mud onto the small concrete slab that dared to call itself a patio. Clad in one of Dean’s ratty, oil-stained t-shirts that hung down to the little boy’s shins.

“This one is apple,” Ben tells him, pointing to the brown, sloppy pile he had created at Dean’s feet. “'Cause it’s your favorite.”

“Thank you, Ben,” Dean says. “Apple is my favorite.”

“This one is for Mommy,” Ben announces. He scoops up a big handful with both his tiny fists and places it next to Dean’s apple pie. “Sweet ‘tato.”

“Really? Sweet potato?” Dean asks with a bit of a grimace. Pie is pie, but sweet potato was never one of his favorites.

“Yes! Sweet ‘tato for mommy! Apple for Dean! And this one is mine!” Ben shouts excitedly.

“What flavor is that?” Dean asks.

“Banana cream!” Ben says like it's obvious.

“Oh, yes,” Dean nods. “Banana cream. I should have known.”

Something in Dean’s chest twists at the way Ben smiles up at him, big and unabashed. He longs to run for the first time in ages. Before his injury, he loathed running and silently mocked those early morning joggers he drove past on his way to work. Now he longs for the ability, the freedom. He tries not to let the longing fester. Not to let it turn into resentment. It’s his own fault really. He took so much for granted.

He lets Ben splash about in the mud a bit more. The kid ran all around the yard searching for rocks to clean off. He found one particular shiny piece of asphalt buried beside the fence. His tiny little fingers curled around it as he sloshed it under the muddied water.

“This is for you, Dean!” He exclaims excitedly. “It’s a diamond!”

“A diamond? Really?” Dean chuckles bemusedly. “Why don’t you save this and give it to your mommy. I heard she loves diamonds.”

“Really?” Ben gasps.

“Yup!” Dean replies. “Now let's get you inside and cleaned up for lunch, okay?”

He makes grilled cheese sandwiches for both of them and feels like quite the accomplished chef as he does. He uses the expensive cheese from the grocery store deli. Muenster. Perfect for melting, according to the internet. He uses way too much butter to fry them, but tops it with some fresh parsley to compensate.

Dean’s been getting pretty creative with his garnishes lately. He’s found they really add another layer of flavor to his microwavable Hungry Man meals. He added thyme to his turkey meal last Thanksgiving. It was a revolution.

Ben teaches him how to master the “cheese pull” and the little heathen insists on dipping his triangle pieces into ketchup. Though he can’t blame him, tomatoes and grilled cheese are a banging pair.

“You make the best grilled cheeses,” Ben admits, chewed-up food still tucked in his cheeks. “I love ‘em!”

Dean chuckles from around his own sandwich, “I’m glad, kid.”

“You should live with me and mommy,” Ben suggests, his tiny voice serious as all hell.

Dean chokes on his food, sputtering until his esophagus finally chills out enough to get a word out, “I don’t think your mommy would enjoy that too much.”

“Yes! She would,” Ben exclaims. “She said she wants a chef like Bobby Flay to live with us.”

“Your mom crushin’ on Bobby Flay?” Dean guffaws. “And I ain’t no chef.”

“If you’re not a chef, what are you?” Ben questions skeptically.

Dean internally cringes at the question. There really isn’t an easy way to describe mooching off disability and his compensation money and, oh yeah, his fucking Etsy shop. Talk about gainful employment.

Dean leans back in his chair and sucks his teeth, “I’m self-employed.”

“Woah,” Ben whispers to himself. There’s definitely something going on inside the little dude’s head, but Dean decides he doesn’t want the headache that goes along with asking.

“Okay,” Dean smacks the table with the palm of his hands, using the table to support him as he rises. “It’s nap time, kiddo.”

“Do I hafta?” Ben pouts. Dean can swear there are even tears in his eyes. Oh, the drama of the preschool years.

“Yup, go get your blankie.”

“B-but Dean,” Ben whines. “I don’t wanna nap.”

“Tough,” Dean says. “Guest room should be good, let’s go.”

He lets Ben sniffle miserably behind him, his blanket dragging along the floor. The kid cries fat crocodile tears as Dean supervises his potty visit. He wipes his still soapy hands all over Dean’s jeans in his best form of retaliation. That just earns him an eye roll and a nudge in the butt towards the bedroom by Dean’s socked foot. There are a few more tears while Dean tucks him under the covers, but Ben is quick to realize the teary act isn’t going to accomplish anything.

“Will you read me a story?” Ben whimpers. The covers are tucked up to his chin and his lower lip is stuck out as far as it can go. “Pwease?”

“Kid, I know for a fact you have pretty good annunciation on the L’s for a four-year-old so you can cut the “pwease” act,” Dean snorts.

“What’s annunciation?” Ben questions.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean says. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and opens up the ESPN app. “Okay, time to hear a story about the… Philadelphia Flyers. You like hockey?”

“Yes!” Ben shouts excitedly.

Dean reads sports articles to the kid until his breathing evens out into a steady rise and fall. Finally, a moment of peace that didn’t include baby cartoons playing incessantly in the background. He puts on his favorite chill-out record, Master of Reality by Black Sabbath, finds a joint he’d stashed away in the old coffee can full of miscellaneous coins, and settles down in his chair. He knows he probably shouldn’t smoke while the kid is in his charge, but the pain’s getting increasingly worse. His toes are tingling with heat, and his legs are going from numb to pulsing with lightning pain. Smoking a little weed is a lot better than being incapacitated by pain if the kid needs him. It’s medicinal too… Or at least it would be if it were legal. Can’t win ‘em all.

Since Elmo’s little portrait is done, his next commission is an in memoriam portrait for one of the fattest cats he’s ever seen. The email from the woman commissioning the piece went into detail, which Dean never asked for or wanted. The cat, Minette, was 23 years old at the time of her death, having been rescued at 2 years old after her previous owners left for a vacation in Vietnam and then just never came back. Her favorite meal was steamed salmon and brown rice smothered in turkey gravy. She died from old age, read complications due to gout, while resting in the back of a closet inside a Christian Louboutin shoe box. Rest in peace, Minette.

There was something so magical about the smell of weed and burning wood that was so calming to Dean. Earthy and smoky. Bath and Body Works needed to get in on this. He’s not afraid to say he’s smelled their men’s products, and to be quite honest, it’s just your basic cologne scents. Nothing special. But the women get to smell like tropical vanilla sex in the middle of Tahiti? That’s just not fair. Dean wants to smell like tropical vanilla sex in the middle of Tahiti, too, but with undertones of ball sweat. You know, manly.

“Dean,” A little voice from the hallway calls out. He hears the pitter-patter of bare feet upon his shitty laminate floors. He unplugs his pen and pushes the table to the side of the chair. Ben takes that as his cue to rush over and bury his face in Dean’s stomach.

“Woah, buddy,” Dean chuckles. “What’s up? You sleep okay?”

“Sometimes I miss Mommy,” Ben whispers. “‘Specially during naptime.”

Dean rubs a hand over the little boy’s back, “It’s okay to miss your mommy. I still miss my mommy too sometimes, and I’m really old.”

“You’re old?” Ben gasps.

“What?” Dean teases. “Do I not look old?”

“No,” Ben confirms. “You look really really old.”

“Well, thanks,” Dean snorts.

“Why does it smell funny in here?” Ben scrunches his nose up in distaste. Dean laughs a little too hard at that.

Lisa picks up Ben around 4:15 after he’s managed to spill half a chocolate pudding cup all over his shirt. Which is not ideal, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Says it comes with the territory. She hands over a pink box from the bakery downtown. Ben squeals and drags Lisa into the house to show her every room, narrating the events from his day as he does.

“Look, mommy!” Ben shouts as he drags her to Dean’s chair, turned art studio. “Dean does drawings with a pen that I can’t touch cause it’s hot.”

“That’s very cool, baby,” Lisa says. “Wow, Dean. I never knew you were such an artist.”

“Yeah, cause I’m not,” Dean shrugs. She’s eyeing his fat, dead cat portrait like she actually approves of it. She slugs him on the arm good-heartedly.

“I know you’re not that modest, Winchester,” She says. “Seriously, that’s like really good.”

“Yeah, yeah, it better be with what I’m charging,” Dean states sardonically.

“Thank you for this,” Lisa says sincerely. She reaches for her purse hanging on her hip. “Here, let me reimburse you.”

“No, no,” Dean rushes in. “You don’t gotta do that. Looking after Ben was the highlight of my month.”

“Come over for dinner sometime soon at least,” Lisa suggests kindly. “You deserve a good meal.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Dean grins.

The next few days without Ben remind Dean just how lonely he can get in this house all by himself. He almost started talking to the grout in the bathroom while soaking in the tub, he was so lonely. He almost calls Sam, he’s so lonely. That’s why on a warm Sunday evening, he takes Lisa up on her dinner offer.

He’s feeling pretty good. He’s got actual shoes on instead of just his glorified memory foam house slippers, and walking isn’t causing any severe pain. He’s got a kick-ass sweet potato pie from his favorite bakery as a polite offering. The evening is already looking up. Sounds of life are already emitting from Lisa’s house before she even opens the door. He can hear a cartoon playing on the television and Lisa shouting that she’ll be right there. The door swings open, and the warmth from the house oozes out, engulfing Dean like a hug. It’s nice.

“Dean,” Lisa greets happily. She hugs him, which is surprising, but he can’t help but lean into her embrace. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Yeah, me too,” Dean smiles. He goes to take a tentative step when his manners kick in. “Do I needa take off my shoes or anything?”

“Oh, um. No, no, it’s fine, you don’t need to. Whatever you want to do is good. I know it’s, it can be, hard, yeah. So, just whatever you want,” Lisa rambles awkwardly.

“Right, um, I brought pie,” Dean holds the bakery box out lamely, feeling suddenly, stupidly, out of place. He opts for keeping his shoes on, just for the ease of it all, tries not to feel like a complete invalid, and shuffles inside.

“Dean, this was supposed to be my treat. You didn’t need to bring anything,” Lisa admonishes lightheartedly.

“Yeah, uh, Ben mentioned sweet potato was your favorite. Not exactly the season for it, but I’m good with the baker,” Dean jokes. There’s a tender moment of silence as he hands the pie over to Lisa. She looks almost too pleased about the entire thing. It makes him uncomfortable.

“Smells great,” He says, desperate to break the silence.

“Lasagna. I hope you like it.”

“Homemade lasagna? I haven’t had anything but Stauffer’s for years,” Dean jokes. “I’m sure it’ll be great.”

“You want anything to drink? Wine, water, I’ve got some Coke too, regular and diet.”

“Coke’s good. Regular. That diet crap tastes like pool water. City pool water.”

“Right, well Ben’s in the living room if you want to go say hi,” Lisa tells him before making her way into the kitchen to fetch his drink.

Lisa’s house was nice. Small like his own, but with a way better paint job and crown molding. The floors looked like a nicer laminate than Dean’s. Like it could pass as real hardwood if you weren’t looking too carefully. In the living room, Ben’s sitting criss-cross-applesauce on his Paw Patrol blanket, a worn stuffed dog held tightly to his chest, and his eyes on the TV.

“Hey, kid,” Dean says. The little boy’s head darts in his direction, and before he knows it, he’s being climbed by a child looking for a hug.

“Dean! I missed you!” Ben shouts. He’s wrapped his skinny arms around Dean’s thigh and is looking up at Dean with big brown eyes filled with sincere admiration. Damn it.

“Aw, I missed you too, buddy,” Dean ruffles his hair, making the little boy giggle.

Ben’s attempting to climb Dean like a jungle gym when Lisa walks in with a soda can in her hand. Dean doesn’t want Ben to consider this normal behavior. The climbing all over him. It should be normal. Ben doesn’t have a dad or a male figure in his life to climb all over like other kids his age, and Dean doesn’t want the kid to miss out on that. Heck, it’s a little kid’s right to accidentally knee their Pop in the nuts while using him as play equipment. It can’t be normal for Dean, though. Tonight. Tonight it’s good. Tonight it’s okay, but who knows how he’ll feel tomorrow? Some days it hurts just to stand to take a piss let alone have a kid swing from your limbs. Tomorrow could suck, but for now, it’s okay.

At least it would be if Lisa hadn’t told Ben off for roughhousing inside. Apparently, the lamp he was dangerously close to kicking was a family heirloom. Who knew.

The lasagna on his plate is still steaming, and his mouth is watering just from the look of it. The layers are so even and neat it looks like it could have come out of a magazine.

“This looks great, Lis,” Dean says sincerely. “Really, thanks for having me over.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Lisa assures. “In fact, you’re all Ben can talk about lately. He had a great time when you babysat. He’s even told me he wants to be self-employed just like you.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Dean laughs from around a mouthful of food.

“Yeah,” Lisa drags out the word longer than is normal, and Dean should have seen this coming. “I was actually wondering if maybe you wouldn’t mind watching him again?”

“Please! Dean!” Ben pipes up enthusiastically.

Dammit. He knew his babysitting rates were too low.

That’s how Dean got a kid sacked on him from 11:30 am to 5 pm Monday through Friday and all day on those select Saturdays that Lisa had to work. Dean can’t complain, though Ben was a good kid. Even-tempered most of the time, though he liked to cry before nap time and got a little too rowdy near the end of the day when he got excited to see his mom.

The kid was even showing an interest in wood burning. Dean ordered him his very own pair of heat-resistant gloves he could wear during the short lessons Dean’s been giving him. He was pretty talented too, having mastered stick figure portraits of his mom and squiggly flowers in nearly a day.

Really, it was fine. Sure, Ben liked Dean to stand at the door to watch him potty, but kids were weird, and that wasn’t too egregious. He could handle this for a year or however long it took for little kids to start school full-time and then have soccer practice after school.

Then there was a knock at his door.

Dean wasn’t sure what he expected when he opened the door. Maybe a UPS or Amazon package of something he forgot he ordered, it wouldn’t be the first time that happened. Maybe the meter reader guy is there. Or better yet, maybe the kid who said he was going to mow his lawn actually decided to show up. Not likely, but maybe.

Nope. It’s some man dressed like a goddamn flasher with a child holding his hand. The implications of that are unsettling, to say the least. His defenses are immediately raised.

“Uhm, hello?” Dean asks the trenchcoat-clad man standing at his door a small blonde girl at his side.

“You are Dean? Dean Winchester?” The man asks, his voice is deep and authoritarian. Something about this man’s posture makes Dean uneasy. He pulls his shoulders back and juts his chin up.

“Uh, who are you?” Dean spares a glance backward to make sure Ben is still in the living room in front of the television. If this guy is some kinda child snatcher, he’d like to know where the kid is.

“By your evasion of my question, I am going to assume you’re Dean Winchester,” The man states. “I am Castiel, I know Lisa.”

“You know Lisa?” Dean asks.

“Tangentially.”

“Tangentially?” Dean repeats flabbergasted. “That doesn’t inspire a whole lotta confidence here, pal.”

“Our stalls are next to each other at the farmers' market. We talk in the Facebook group,” The guy explains like any of that makes sense to Dean.

“You talk in the Facebook group?” Repetition seems to be all Dean is good for right now.

“Yes, the Morganton Farmers Market Facebook group,” Castiel explains. “And the St. Peter's Preschool group.”

“I don’t give a damn about your Facebook groups, man,” Dean snaps. “Listen, let me just call Lisa, okay?”

The man squints at him in a way that makes Dean want to punch him in the face.

“You are very hostile,” He states.

“Hostile? Christ,” Dean scoffs as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. “You ever watch Dateline?”

“No, I do not believe I have,” He answers.

“Just shut up,” Dean sighs, his phone already to his ear.

Well. Apparently, Castiel does know Lisa. The spin place she works for has a stall at the farmer’s market right next to Castiel’s organic candle stall. Stall. What is he a fucking horse? Just say table, God. His babysitter moved to France to become an au pair, and he needs someone to watch his daughter Claire, who goes to preschool with Ben.

“Okay,” Dean harrumphs, “So you’re not a child snatcher, good for you.”

“Yes, that is good for me,” Castiel agrees. He gently pushes his daughter towards Dean. “Claire, say hello to Dean.”

“Hello, Dean. My daddy isn’t a child snatcher,” She tells him matter-of-factly.

“So, we’ve established,” Dean chuckles.

“He’s an actuary,” The little girl punctuates.

Dean makes what he hopes is an impressed sound and not one of confusion. He has no fucking clue what an actuary is. What even is a flasher-dressed actuary organic candle-selling man, anyways? Dean’s kind of happy he might have found something even worse than a disabled Etsy artist babysitter man.

“I will be back around 5:30. Hopefully earlier,” Castiel tells him. “Claire likes Goldfish, the crackers, not the fish, and don’t let her eat grass. She gets enough fiber as is.”

“Right, no grass, yes, Goldfish, but only in cracker form. Got it.”

He guides Claire inside the house. She hands him her My Little Pony backpack and runs into the living room, shouting Ben’s name. Her bag is deceptively heavy for being 15 inches tall and covered in glittery ponies.

“Dean!” He hears Ben shout. “Claire is here!”

“Yeah,” Dean nods amusedly at the pair. “Listen, I gotta give Claire the rundown, okay? Claire look at me. Right. You see the pen on the table there?”

He waits for a nod of acknowledgment before he continues, “Do not touch it, okay? It gets hot, and if you touch it, you will get burned, and it will hurt. Do you understand?”

She nods again, sneaking a shifty glance at the pen. The pen wasn’t even plugged in right now, but he wanted to make sure the golden rule of the house was immediately respected.

“Uh uh,” Dean says. “I know that look. Do not touch it, Claire.”

“I won’t,” She grumpily replies. She crosses her arms across her chest and pouts at him. “What’s it for?”

“It’s to draw!” Ben replies for him. “He’s teaching me how to use it.”

“That’s not fair!” Claire whines. “I wanna learn!”

Dean scrubs his face with his hand before sighing, “Okay, Claire, listen up. You can learn too, but I have to ask your daddy first, okay? So, the rules for today are no touching. Can you tell me what the rules are?”

“No touching,” Claire parrots back glumly. “For today.” She adds on more excitedly.

“Good girl,” Dean praises. “What’s in your bag, by the way? It’s so heavy.”

Claire laughs maniacally at the way Dean over exaggerates how heavy the backpack is, acting as though he can barely hold it.

“Rocks!” Claire shouts.

“There’s rocks in your bag?” Dean sputters.

“I wanna see!” Ben jumps up excitedly, reaching for the bag. Dean lets him snatch it up, unzipping it eagerly… And. Yup. Those were rocks. A whole bunch of rocks. Smooth rocks, jagged rocks, and a rock that Dean is pretty sure is just a chunk of cement.

“Claire, why is your bag full of rocks?” Dean snorts.

“They’re my pets,” She chirps, obviously pleased with herself. Dean has to hold in his laughter because he doesn’t want her to feel embarrassed, but a pet rock. Yeah, that’s funny. Very retro. He remembers Sammy going through a phase like this. His vice wasn’t rocks, though, just his own imagination. He had an imaginary pet dog called Sully for years.

“Can we go play with Claire’s pets, Dean?” Ben whines, giving Dean big puppy dog eyes.

“Let’s eat lunch first, okay?” Dean suggests, though it’s less of a suggestion and more of a demand. The kids whine about it even as they trudge their little butts to the kitchen table.

Lisa, bless her, had brought Dean a week's supply of Lunchables to feed Ben. The Food Lion had them buy two get two, and she snatched up all of Ben’s favorites. He was partial to the pizza one, but the turkey and cheese crackers were acceptable, if only because they had Oreos too.

“Ben?” Dean calls out while rummaging through his fridge, contemplating what Lunchables would be best to hand out for today. “You don’t mind sharing your Lunchables with Claire today, right? I’m sure she would like to have one.”

Ben bites his bottom lip, contemplatively looking at Claire and then at Dean. He nods and says, “She likes the bologna.”

“One bologna coming right up,” Dean chirps.

He sets down a turkey and cheese in front of Ben and a bologna in front of Claire, along with a juice box each. He’s got a juice box for himself, too. Sue him, apple juice is crisp, refreshing, and full of hidden sugars. He did, however, decide to forgo a Lunchable himself, settling for a simple ham and cheese sandwich instead.

He listens to the two kids chat about what happened in preschool earlier that day. June Carpenter threw up on the play rug, which wasn't a great conversation for the kitchen table and maybe reminded Dean of a night in his twenties when he might have hurled up a sandwich on a friend’s carpet after getting a little too drunk. The kids found it riveting, though, and who was Dean to deny a pair of four-year-olds the epic drama of preschool gossip?

“Do you want to share my cookies, Dean?” Ben asks, holding out one of his two Oreos towards Dean. Dean’s heart could have melted then and there. His little fingers are clutched around the cookie, and he’s smiling sweetly up at Dean.

“No, no, it’s okay, buddy,” Dean chuckles. “ Thank you, Ben. That was very, very nice of you. You enjoy those cookies. You deserve them.”

“Ben is so nice,” Claire nods sagely. “I’m not. I like cookies.”

Dean just snorts at her, shaking his head slightly, “Are you two about ready to play outside?”

Both kids jumped up from their chairs immediately. Claire shoves her entire cookie in her mouth and cheers around a mouthful of crumbs.

Dean plops himself down on the plastic chair he’s grown accustomed to using ever since Ben came along. He should invest in more comfortable outdoor seating. Claire is lining up her rocks for Ben, telling him each of their names and personalities.

Dean’s favorite is the smooth tan stone named Mr. Skippy who is a divorced grocery store cashier who in Claire’s own words, “Despises children.”

The kids play a few make-believe games with the rocks, including a riveting retelling of Trolls: World Tour, before getting bored and beginning a game of tag. The two are sweaty and panting by the time Dean decides he should water them and put them down for a nap.

Ben gets teary-eyed, as is expected, as he’s tucked into bed.

“Why’s he cryin’?” Claire asks in what she probably thinks is a whisper, but is much too loud to be hidden from Ben’s ears. The little boy turns on his side away from Claire, obviously upset.

“He’s just a little upset, is all,” Dean tells her. He rubs a hand across Ben’s back. “He doesn’t like to sleep away from home, so be extra nice, okay?”

Claire’s eyes go wide at that, and she throws her skinny arms around him, hugging him tightly. “It’s okay, Ben!”

Ben huffs, a little shy, a little embarrassed, but returns the hug, and Dean leaves the two to their nap.

It’s weird, Dean’s noticed, how eerily quiet the house gets whenever he puts Ben, and now Claire too, down for a nap. It’s never like this when he’s on his own, when it's just him to fill the emptiness. There’s chaos in a toddler that is unmatched by any other force Dean’s known. It’s chaos, but it’s warm like a hug that squeezes you just a bit too tightly. The silence when they’re gone but still so close, just down the hall, a room away, is a little freaky. It makes him feel uneasy. It turns something in his stomach that he can’t quite identify.

Today, he’s working on a commission for a pomeranian named Igor. Igor’s not dead, just very spoiled. The buyer made sure to mention to Dean the other portraits she had commissioned from different Etsy artists. He supposes she was trying to intimidate him into doing a good job by making him aware of her avid dog art prowess. Whatever. He’s never done anything but a good job, and his store reviews will let you know that.

He’s made fantastic leeway on Igor when he hears the tell-tale shuffle of sleepy little feet. He expects Ben to be the one dragging bare feet across the carpet, blanky in tow, but it’s Claire coming towards him. Half her face is red from sleeping on it, and her blonde hair is sticking up in multiple directions and Dean mentally notes to invest in a hairbrush if she’ll be staying with him often.

“Hey, Claire,” He says. “How was your nap?”

She shrugs and climbs onto his lap, “I dreamed I went to the beach with my daddy, and he turned into a fish. A giant fish!”

“Wow, that’s a good dream,” He brushes her messy hair down with his hand. “Ben still sleeping?”

She nods but isn’t paying him any attention. Instead, all her attention is focused on Igor. She runs her little fingers along the freshly burnt lines, her eyes wide.

“You like that?” He asks.

She nods eagerly, “I wanna learn too.”

“Well, if your dad says yes, you can,” He tells her.

“He will,” She tells him, her little face so deadly serious he can’t hold back his laugh. “I’m gonna be a chainsaw artist too.”

“How do you know about chainsaw art?” He chuckles.

“My daddy’s friend is a chainsaw artist,” She says matter-of-factly. “And a police officer.”

“A cop?” Dean questions only a bit perturbed. It’s not like he hated all cops… Just most of them.

“Miss Jody’s nice,” Claire glares.

Dean holds up his hands in defeat, “I ain’t gonna argue with that. She sounds real cool.”

A cry from the bedroom echoes to the living room, alerting Dean that Ben’s finally awake and he doesn’t sound too happy about it. He shooes Claire off his lap and steadies himself, hyping his mind up for getting up again. He takes a moment to massage his legs, but Ben lets out another cry. He must have had a nightmare.

“Hey buddy,” Dean says calmly as he makes his way into the bedroom. Ben is sitting up, his face ruddy, clutching his blanket tightly. “You have a bad dream?”

Ben nods miserably. He wipes his nose on his blanket, making Dean cringe a little on the inside. He doesn’t like being reminded how unsanitary kids can be.

“You want a hug?” Dean asks.

Ben nods enthusiastically, and Dean sits down on the bed so Ben can climb into his lap and smash his face into his stomach. It wasn’t really a hug as much as it was Ben trying to burrow himself into Dean’s t-shirt, but it was what Ben preferred. Ben was prone to nightmares, Dean had learned from his time babysitting and from what Lisa had told him. She was quick to assure him that his pediatrician had told her he would probably outgrow them eventually. The kid didn’t like to talk about them, and the one time Dean even asked made Ben go on some form of a silent strike where he didn’t speak for the rest of the day, so Dean learned quickly not to ask. A hug and a back rub usually remedied any distress from them well enough.

A sharp, piercing yelp from the other room startles both Dean and Ben out of the hug. And fuck. Dean’s heart falls into his ass. He left the pen on. He left the pen on with Claire in the room. He practically falls over himself trying to sprint into the living room.

“Claire!” He shouts. He doesn’t mean to shout, but he can’t help it. Ben even seems startled and clutches at Dean’s leg. He feels sick.

Claire’s holding her hand limply against her chest, and her big blue eyes are full of tears. “I’m sorry!” She says her voice is wobbly and wet.

“I told you not to touch the pen,” He scolds her, trying to keep his voice steady and calm. He doesn’t want to be harsh, but he has to admit he’s mad and a little embarrassed. Giving a kid a third-degree burn on the first day you watch them is not a good look. He scrubs a hand down his face and takes a calming breath.

“Let me see your hand,” He tells her. She shakes her head, pressing her hand closer to her chest. “Please, Claire. I need to see how badly it’s burned so we can put medicine on it.”

She holds her hand out, and he can see the shiny pink burn right away. It doesn’t look too bad, luckily, but it’s bad enough that it’s going to hurt for days, and it might even scar.

“Okay, okay,” He says, mostly to himself. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

Ben follows close to Dean, practically plastered to his side, and Claire takes wobbly, hesitant steps. She looks like a newborn deer. Scared, uncoordinated. He grabs the jug of distilled white vinegar from under the sink and splashes some in a bowl. Next, he pours the distilled water he keeps, also under the sink, into the bowl. And he should move this crap from out from under the sink all this bending over is not doing him any favors.

“K, you need to soak your hand in this for a few minutes,” Dean tells Claire.

She eyes him skeptically, her lips wobbling like she’s going to cry again. She glares directly at the jug of vinegar. “You’re trying to turn me into a pickle!” She cries.

“What?” Dean asks dumbly.

“Vinegar is for pickles!” She sobs. “I don’t want to be a pickle!”

“This is medicine, Claire,” Dean informs her. “It’s good for you, it will help your hand stop hurting.”

“How do you know that?” She questions haughtily.

“Because I’m a surgeon,” He deadpans.

“Really?” She sniffles.

“Yup.” Tree surgeon, human surgeon. Potato, puh-tot-oh.

“Wow,” Ben gasps. “I thoughts you were self-employed.”

“I am,” Dean tells him. “I’m a retired surgeon.”

Eventually, he’s able to coax Claire into sticking her hand in the bowl. Her eyes get really big, and she exclaims, “It doesn’t even hurt!”

Dean decides to let the kids watch a Disney movie to calm down from the hecticness of the day. Well, he was going to let them watch a Disney movie, but it turned into three Disney movies, so they each got to pick one. He didn’t have to mental fortitude to argue with them at this point. They began with Claire’s pick, that new 101 Dalmatians bastardization. Dean never knew he had such strong opinions on the fucking 101 Dalmations franchise until that film came out. Next was Ben’s choice of the Heffalump, which is apparently a Winnie the Pooh movie. It was a sweet film and had a good message. Dean decided to school the kids and make them watch The Rocketeer. Really, Dean was just glad to get a little more out of his Disney+ subscription.

They’re most of the way through a bowl of an odd mixture of popcorn, Goldfish, and Reese’s pieces when the doorbell rings. Claire gasps and jumps up from her spot on the floor.

“Daddy!” She exclaims. She’s at the door before Dean can even register what’s happening.

“Do not open that door, Claire!” He shouts.

“Hurry up!” She shouts back before adding an afterthought. “Please!”

Dean readies himself to get up from the couch. He really should invest in a couch that doesn’t sit so deep. He forgets about the bowl of toddler trail mix resting on his lap, and it falls to the floor, spilling the contents onto the ground. Ben scoots over to the mess and begins to eat it off the rug. Dean should reprimand him, but it’s better than vacuuming.

“Dean!” Clair shouts at him and, yup, he can hear her turning the door knob frantically.

He opens the door to a scowling Castiel. Claire squeals and hugs his leg. Dean thinks he might have even seen a smile from the man. A slight one. But a smile nonetheless.

“That took an extended period of time,” His deep voice remarks.

“Yeah, well my legs ain’t exactly what they used to be,” Dean snarks.

Castiel squints behind him, “Ben is eating food off the floor. I don’t believe that’s sanitary.”

Dean crosses his arms across his chest, “He’s building up immunity. Never gonna see that kid with a flu.”

“Daddy!” Claire shouts. “I got burned!”

“You what?” He asks, throwing a glare Dean’s way.

“I touched the pen Dean uses to draw, and it burned me! But Dean put vinegar on it because he’s a surgeon!”

“Can you explain this?” Castiel asks.

“Uhm, yeah,” Dean sighs. “I do, uh, wood burning, art, I guess, and it uses a hot pen. I told Claire not to touch it, but she touched it, and so yeah, I put some vinegar on it, which is like cool to do, you know. Google it.”

“Right,” Castiel enunciates slowly. “And you’re a surgeon?”

“Well, don’t sound so skeptical about it,” Dean scoffs. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

The other man simply raises an eyebrow at him.

“A tree surgeon,” Dean admits. “Or well, I was, but as I said, legs ain’t exactly what they used to be.”

“I wanna learn woodburning, Daddy,” Claire says. “Ben is. So I should get to, too.”

“Hmm, you make a good argument,” He says.

Dean swallows and hopes he isn’t going to regret this, “You know I wouldn’t mind teaching her. I’m teaching Ben, anyways.”

“Yes!” Claire shouts with a jump. “Please!”

This time, Castiel does smile, “Okay. I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Thank you for watching, Claire,” Castiel tells him. “What do I owe you?”

“Oh, uhm, Lisa usually gives me $50 for a full day if that works,” Dean says.

“That is severely low,” Castiel tells him. “You should consider upping your rates.”

“Right,” Dean says.

Castiel fishes out a $50 bill and a business card from his wallet and passes them along to Dean.

“My number is on the card,” Castiel informs. “Call me to set up a good time for these art lessons.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean agrees.

Art lessons begin on a Saturday. Lisa is leading a yoga retreat, and Ben is spending the night at Dean’s. It’s Ben’s first sleepover, and he shows up with an abundance of excitement. Dean knows he’s going to crash out at around 5 pm when he realizes his mom isn’t coming to pick him up at the usual time.

Dean and Ben are just finishing up their lunch when the doorbell rings.

“Claire is here!” Ben shouts, shoving the last of his Uncrustable into his mouth.

Dean pushes himself up from the seat, his joints protesting the movement, and makes his way to the front door before Ben can open it without permission.

Dean opens the door to Claire, holding a hot pink silicone purse and dressed like a ninja. Castiel was in his regular flasher chic get-up. Dean noticed his shoes looked extra shiny.

“Afternoon, Cas,” Dean greets. “You could have dropped her off early if you were working.”

“Why would you think I am working?” Castiel questions.

Dean looks him up and down and gestures at the suit and tie with a raised brow.

“And I suppose you believe Claire is a real ninja?” Castiel replies drily.

“I am,” Claire states, walking past the threshold and throwing her purse onto the couch, an equally pink plastic phone tumbling out onto the floor.

“See, she is,” Dean grins.

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Well, feel free to stay and watch the lesson,” Dean offers. “See, it’s safe and whatnot.”

“Thank you, Dean. I will.”

Castiel steps inside and shucks his coat off, folding it over his arm as he looks around the room.

“Oh,” Dean says. “You can just throw the coat over the loveseat. No biggie.”

“You should get a coatrack,” Castiel says. He eyes the loveseat with contempt, which Dean finds offensive. That was a good chair. The best the Salvation Army could provide. No stains, tears, or bugs. Castiel sighs and then puts the coat back on.

“Daddy!” Claire shouts before Dean can say something rude. “Ben is sleeping over. I should do that too!”

“Not today,” Castiel says. “You have to give advance notice for sleepovers.”

Claire pushes her bottom lip out, but Castiel is no longer looking at her. He’s looking at Dean’s sock-covered feet.

“Should I remove my shoes?” He asks.

“Uh, I mean, if you’re okay with that,” Dean answers hesitantly.

Castiel toes off his shoes, surprising Dean. The black leather looked so pristine. Dean for sure thought the other man would bend over to remove them instead of chancing scuffing them with the bottom of the shoe.

“You shine those just for me?” Dean teases.

“W-what?” Castiel stutters, and Dean thinks he can detect a bit of pink in the man’s cheeks.

“He did,” Claire says. “At the barber shop.”

“Got a haircut for me, too? Glad you wanted to look nice for what you thought was just dropping Claire off at the door.”

Dean isn’t sure where the sudden burst of bravado was coming from. Castiel was a strange man. An off-putting man, really. He was definitely not Dean’s type when it came to men. He was usually into the more lumberjack types. But perhaps that’s just what was usually available to Dean all his life. Though with a beard and a different outfit? Yeah, Dean could see it. He’s always been a sucker for blue eyes. And honestly, he’s feeling kind of flattered. It’s been a long time since somebody’s shown interest in him.

“You should get a shoe rack,” Castiel says.

The lesson is a simple one. It’s mostly just letting Ben and Claire take turns burning lines into the wood. He wants them to get an idea of the pressure before they move on to anything else. Ben, having had a bit more practice than Claire, can already draw simple designs. He makes a triangle and a square, focusing on getting the lines the same color.
Claire, in her usual life, is self-assured but scattered brain. It’s hard getting her to stay on one topic for longer than a few minutes. But she sits through the, admittedly, short lesson and waits patiently each time for her turn. She’s becoming a pro at parallel lines, sticking her tongue out in concentration as she works.

“I have never seen her so calm,” Castiel admits softly, as Claire looks over Ben’s shoulder while he finishes the side of a triangle.

“She’s an artsy gal,” Dean grins.

Castiel swallows hard, emotionally, and nods. Dean wonders what that is about. He doesn’t know much about Claire beyond what she has told him. And what she tells him isn’t a lot. He knows she lives with just her dad, but she’s never mentioned anyone else.

In total, the lesson lasts about 40 minutes before Ben is itching to go outside. Claire begs her dad to let her stay for just a little bit longer, and that’s how Dean and Castiel end up sitting outside watching Claire and Ben play ninja doggies.

“I really need to get better chairs for out here,” Dean groans, the plastic creaking beneath his tired legs. He fishes his vape pen from his pocket and takes a hit without even considering his company.

“Oh, shit,” Dean says, smoke billowing from his mouth.

“Do you always smoke when watching the kids?” Castiel questions.

“Pfft,” Dean says, hitting the pen again. It’s too late now, might as well go all in. “It’s weed or painkillers. I’m choosing the lesser of two evils. It’s medical.”

“I do not judge,” Castiel says. “My brother is in the business.”

Dean nods at that and turns to look at the kids. Claire is climbing in the one tree Dean has in his yard, and he has to look away, feeling a bit woozy over it. Ben is pawing at the tree, barking, taking his role as a dog very seriously.

“So, uh, did you really shine those shoes for me?” Dean asks shyly, eyes still on Ben.

“I did,” Castiel admits.

“Nice,” Is all Dean can think to say, but his heart swells up with joy.

“You are a very aesthetically pleasing man,” Castiel says. “And more so, you are great with Claire. She talks about you all the time.”
“Well, shucks,” Dean chuckles. “She’s an easy kid to care for.”

Castiel snorts at that, “No, she’s not.”

“So, what do organic candle farmer’s market actuary dads like to do in their free time?” Dean asks.

Castiel shrugs, “What do reefer smoking woodburning artist babysitters like to do in theirs?”

“Reefer smoking?” Dean laughs exasperatedly.

“I like to go to restaurants and write anonymous Yelp reviews on them,” Castiel confides.

“Is this your way of asking me to dinner?” Dean asks.

“It is.”

“Consider it a date,” Dean responds. He tries to play it cool and nonchalant, but his heart is racing, and he can’t help but smile widely.

“I usually do flowers as a first date gift,” Castiel says. “But do you think a coatrack would be a good substitute?”

Dean hits his pen again.