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The first thing Dean sees when he fights his way back to consciousness, is a white, water-stained ceiling. The first thing he smells is the clean, clinical scent of disinfectant. The first thing he hears is the steady, rhythmic beeping of an electronic vital signs monitor.
Well, shit.
That hit clearly didn’t go to plan then.
The plan being Dean not getting shot (and also the target getting dead).
There’s a tight, pulling pain in his abdomen which suggests that the former happened, but there’s no way to tell about the latter.
Fuckfuckfuckity fuck.
This whole thing would be really embarrassing if Dean was a professional and relied on his reputation to get work or whatever.
He groans and the beeping rate picks up.
A few moments later he catches sight of movement in his periphery and turns his head to see. There’s a man in pale blue scrubs with his back turned as he examines the monitor.
Dean knows he shouldn’t, but when the guy bends at the waist, he’s got no hope of not checking out that ass. It is truly spectacular and there’s literally zero chance that an ass like that belongs to anyone with an above-a-five face.
Apparently, Dean’s wrong about a lot of things today, because then the guy turns around and Dean has absolutely no control over any of his faculties, because he’s blurting out, “Fuck me,” with the wholehearted awe that those blue eyes deserve.
Dude is gorgeous.
He wears the scrubs well - which is a feat in and of itself, because nobody looks their best in the ill-fitting things - broad shoulders pulling the fabric taut across a leanly muscular chest. His hair is a dark, I’ve-just-pulled-a-twelve-hour-shift mess, his stubbled jaw is sharp and classically handsome, and his mouth is infinitely kissable and just the right shade of pink for turning a blood-rich red with teeth.
And his eyes, has Dean mentioned his eyes? Because holy Christing fuck.
The guy clearly hit the genetic lottery and Dean’s one of the mere mortals lucky enough to be graced with his presence. Even for a short while.
“No, seriously,” Dean clarifies, “Fuck me.”
They might actually have time. Dean would make time.
“I think there are rules against that sort of thing,” Comes the dry, whiskey-over-gravel reply, and yep, Dean’s in love.
He yanks out the IV. It hurts, but not as much as it’s going to hurt getting shot again if his boss catches up with him before he finishes the job. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed with as much dignity as he can muster in a gown that has his ass hanging out the back.
The guy’s plush mouth drops open, a wariness behind those baby blues, like Dean’s about to make his declaration a reality, “You’re not--”
Dean hadn’t even noticed that the dude is holding a clipboard in his long-fingered, capable hands, but the second he does, he grins. Nurse fantasy is complete, “Oh, but I am. Pass me my clothes?”
Getting dressed as opposed to undressed ain't exactly in the porn scenario he’d imagined, but neither is his boss, Crowley, bursting in here and telling Dean to ‘get his ruddy arse back out there and finish the job!’ so he and blue eyes over here are probably gonna have to settle for a quick over-the-clothes fumble in a supply cupboard. This time. Next time, he’ll make sure the guy brings his latex gloves and stethoscope.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dean’s just about close enough now to see the name tag clipped onto the pocket of the scrub top. The picture is adorakable; dude looks like a ruffled parakeet. More importantly, Dean is able to read that this vision’s name is Jimmy Novak.
Jimmy still hasn’t moved, he’s just staring at - or more accurately, watching - Dean. Like he’s out of his mind.
(Not an entirely incorrect assumption. Dean kills people for a living; being certifiable is practically a job requirement).
Dean sees that expression on a lot of faces, he’s intimately familiar with it by now. “Am I Broca's aphasia? Because I’m leaving you speechless.”
He’s pretty proud of that one.
“Oh, wow, ” Jimmy deadpans, and this time, Dean picks up the uncurrent of an accent that he can’t quite place.
"I know, right?" Dean shoots him the flirtiest wink he can muster before gesturing to his clothes again, and this time, Jimmy grabs them for him, leaving his clipboard in their place on the corner chair.
He hands them off to Dean, a wryly amused curl to his mouth. “I can honestly say that I’ve never heard that one before. Nine of out ten for originality, an eight for execution.”
Polish? Slovak? Russian? It’s one of those Balto-Slavic languages anyways.
“Oh yeah?” Dean says, yanking at the press-studs on the hospital gown. He drags it off his body, completely shameless, and yeah, maybe showing off just a little as he gets to his feet. The pulling sensation intensifies and he winces, but says, “I got plenty more where that came from.”
With his dick on show, it’s a brave thing to boast, but thankfully Jimmy doesn’t choose to crush Dean’s spirit with any kind of ‘are you sure about that’ comment. Instead, he studiously keeps his eyes above Dean’s neckline.
So honorable.
Dean wishes he wasn’t.
Now all Dean has to do is figure out how to get himself into his pants and Jimmy out of his. He goes to bend to step into his boxer-briefs, but he can’t. Not without pulling his stitches.
Damn.
Jimmy is still watching, mirth in his eyes, and Dean is really not being as smooth as he’d planned. He drops his underwear onto the linoleum floor, tries not to think about the dirt levels - hospital surfaces are cleaned regularly, right? - and manages to kick-shuffle his way into the leg holes. But after that, he’s on his own and it’s back to the original problem of stitch-tearing. Usually, he’d just go for it, but he gets the feeling that Jimmy would shove Dean’s dumb ass back into bed and re-do them.
Well, alright then.
That only leaves one option. Dean’s dick is definitely on board.
He looks helplessly at Jimmy, “Any chance of a hand?”
Jimmy arches an eyebrow and that simple derisive gesture honestly should not be that hot on anyone, let alone someone who is already burning hot at high-grade fever levels. Luckily for Dean though, he decides to help with a roll of his eyes and he collapses the distance between them. Dean catches the clean scent of skin and soft notes of sandalwood, kind of smoky and elemental, right before Jimmy drops down onto one knee in front of him.
Dean coughs into his fist to cover the sharp intake of breath that he nearly chokes on. He can’t even bring himself to make a joke about it being too soon for marriage. Efficiently, and with absolutely no sexual element to it whatsoever, Jimmy drags the boxer-briefs up Dean’s legs, over his thighs and ass, pointedly ignoring Dean’s dick which is having issues remaining as professional as the man in front of Dean on his knees.
“Pass me your pants,” absolutely should not sound so hot, but it does, and Dean fumbles to respond, shoving the item of clothing into Jimmy’s hands. He taps Dean’s left calf, “Up.”
Dean wants to make a crack about how he already is; the steadily rising tent in his boxers ain’t exactly his best-kept secret, but instead, he obeys wordlessly, lifting his foot and stepping into the puddle of fabric. Jimmy lets him re-balance before tapping his right calf. Dean repeats the process. Jimmy draws the pants most of the way up Dean’s legs, hands them off to Dean to button and zip up.
Jimmy rises to his feet, brushing dirt off his knee and Dean can feel the heat crawling up the back of his neck.
“Don’t forget your shirt,” Jimmy tells him with a coy smile, but his eyes are a darker blue now and Dean inwardly feels super smug. He schools his features into passivity and manages what he hopes is a self-effacing smile in return.
He’s about to offer Jimmy the ultra-romantic opportunity of Dean on his knees this time, but his thigh is vibrating and he’s pretty sure it’s not a side effect of getting shot. Though if he doesn’t answer, getting shot again will be a side effect of getting shot.
Fun.
With a wistful sigh for what could have been, Dean yanks his shirt over his head, pats himself down for his belongings, “Thanks doc.” He wants to say something else, anything else to prolong this moment with the most gorgeous human he’s ever seen, but his phone is ringing again and he should’ve been gone five minutes ago. “I’ll see you around.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.”
***
Two missions and ten days later, Dean very nearly slices his thumb off. Usually, he’d just walk it off, but he quite likes having opposable thumbs - it’s the only thing stopping cats from taking over the world - so he decides to stop in at the same hospital where Jimmy works.
Of course, it’s highly unlikely that the dude is even working this shift, let alone that he’ll be the one who's gonna sew him back together, but still. Dean’s nothing if not an optimist when it comes to all things dick related.
Unfortunately, fate is not smiling on him this time because he’s led to a curtained corner cubicle, by a stern-faced, middle-aged nurse who’s apparently immune to the Winchester charm. She points to one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, orders him to sit still in it, and wait for someone to come. Like he’s an errant child who’ll run off if unsupervised, even as he’s sitting there with his thumb taped together and the butt of a .44 pressing into his kidney.
Yeahhh, probably shoulda left the gun in the car.
An indefinite amount of time later - Dean’s not sure; there are squiggles in his vision and he’s feeling a bit woozy - the curtain gets pulled back and Mr. sex-on-legs is approaching him.
“Hello, Mr.--" Jimmy checks the notes on his clipboard, "--Plant. Hmm, good choice."
A Zeppelin fan too. Marriage material right there.
“Doctor Sexy?”
He's not wearing cowboy boots, but Dean can work with what he's got.
"I think you must be confusing me with someone else,” Jimmy says wryly, pulling up a wheelie chair and scooting close to Dean. He leans in and Dean catches a whiff of fresh cologne - it’s a harsher smell than last time, less natural, and Dean doesn’t like it quite as much. Jimmy reaches for Dean’s injured hand, cradles it gently but securely, and begins unwrapping the gauze Dean hastily slapped on.
Dean admires the curve of Jimmy's throat, the firm swell of muscle beneath his scrub top. "Nope," he murmurs, "Most definitely not."
“Six for originality, five for execution,” Jimmy mutters like he’s trying not to smile, “What happened?”
“I almost cut my thumb off.”
Jimmy grimaces as the soiled bandage falls away, and he gets a look at the full extent of the damage, “I can see that, but how?”
Dean’s not exactly firing on all cylinders, so he says, “Err, I was chopping tomatoes?”
He’s never chopped a tomato in his life. Wouldn’t know where to start. Except with a knife, of course. It’s probably a little easier than hacking through flesh with nothing more than a tiny EDC blade.
Jimmy does that eyebrow thing again, a skeptical expression on his handsome face. He doesn’t say anything about it though and instead changes the subject, “You’ll have to have surgery. It’s the only way it can be reattached.”
Nope. Nuh-uh. Dean is not going under. Not for anything less than life-threatening gunshots or whatever.
“Can’t you just reattach it here and now? Give me a local anesthetic or something like that.”
Jimmy snaps his gloves off with a long-suffering sigh, gets up to throw them into the nearest clinical waste bin. He washes his hands at the sink, squirting a healthy dollop of handwash into his open palms, “No, it’s too risky. There’s damaged and dead tissue--”
Dean doesn’t need to exaggerate his anxiety, “--Please, man. I’m pretty sure my insurance won’t cover it anyway.”
He doesn’t have insurance. The details he’s given both times are fake.
Jimmy shakes the excess water off his hands, dries them, “Mr. Plant--”
Case in point. Last time he was Hagar.
“--Dean. Call me Dean.” After all, the dude’s seen his dick. It seems only right they be on first name terms.
“Dean, this isn’t wise. You could end up with permanent tissue damage.”
“I trust you. Please,” Dean’s not in the habit of begging in non-sexual circumstances, but he’s willing to make an exception. He seems to be making a lot of those today.
The guy’s wavering though, he can tell.
“Please, man,” Dean tries again, damn near fluttering his eyelashes.
“Very well,” Jimmy sighs again, unlocking the medicine cabinet against the adjacent wall, “You’ll be having some local anesthetic though. I don’t care how macho you think you are.” He glances back at Dean, bottom lip caught between his teeth, “Do you want a sedative as well?”
Dean slants Jimmy a sleazy grin, “You just wanna get me unconscious so you can do stuff to me.”
“Oh no. You caught me,” Jimmy replies laconically, “It has nothing at all to do with my Hippocratic oath and everything to do with wanting to get into your pants.”
“I’m so glad you’ve finally given in to this chemistry between us. Maybe it’s time to move on to biology.”
Jimmy actually chokes out a laugh at that, “A two for originality, a solid eight for execution. That may be your worst one yet.”
***
The next time Dean sees his Doctor Sexy is when he gets a knife to the arm. It’s not particularly deep, and he most certainly could’ve sown it up himself.
But that’s no fun.
Jimmy comes in through the curtain, amusement sparkling in his blue eyes.
He looks as good as Dean remembers (and he’s been doing a lot of ‘remembering’), “If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?"
“I’d give that a three for originality, a five for execution.”
“Ooh, Jimbo, that’s harsh.”
***
Another day, another injury, another cheesy pickup line.
“Am I dead, angel? Because this must be heaven.”
“I stand corrected. That is your worst one yet. Two for originality, five for execution.”
***
"Dude, we gotta stop meeting like this."
“Mmm,” Jimmy agrees, focused on the task of bandaging Dean’s fractured big toe, “Maybe if you’d stop requiring medical attention every five minutes.”
“The only reason why I need medical attention is ‘cause I hurt myself pretty bad falling for you.”
“Six and seven.”
Dammit.
***
“Hey, I don’t know what you think of me, but I hope it’s x-rated.”
Jimmy takes a moment to decide before informing Dean of the verdict, “Seven and seven.”
Psht. That was gold . The guy clearly has no taste.
***
A good few months after their first meeting, Jimmy is leaning over Dean again, cleaning his latest wounds with a sterile saline solution.
Dean's not only screwed the pooch, but the whole freakin' kennel this time, and his boss has blacklisted him.
Blacklisted in Dean's line of work isn't something you survive.
He’s barely survived it already. He’s got a bounty on his head, which is why he’s in the fucking hospital this time, because he can pretty much take anyone on in a fair fight, but six against one isn’t fair by anyone’s standards.
Still, they’re dead and he’s not (for now). And whilst there will be more where they came from, he can enjoy the here and now at least. If he’s gonna die today, there’s not many places he’d rather be than under the care of those skilled hands and intelligent eyes. Jimmy smells so fucking good, looks better, and Dean’s on the verge of passing out - not sure if he’ll ever wake up again - so he decides to just go for it.
"Do you know what my nickname is?”
“No,” Jimmy mutters. Usually, there’s a good-natured tease to the lilt of his voice, but today there’s nothing but concern. He might actually give a shit about Dean and that’s perhaps the most tragic thing of all about his impending death, “But I suppose you’re going to tell me.”
Dean most certainly is.
“It’s Mr. Flintstone. Because I can make your Bedrock.”
Before Dean passes out again, he sees just the hint of a smile curving Jimmy's mouth. “Ten out of ten, Winchester.”
***
The first thing Dean sees when he fights his way back to consciousness, is a white, water-stained ceiling. The first thing he smells is the clean, clinical scent of disinfectant. The first thing he hears is the erratic sound of gunfire.
Oh crap.
So, Dean’s alive - for now - but Jimmy is nowhere to be seen.
Fuck, he never wanted to bring this shit to Jimmy’s door. Not even grumpy Nurse Ratched deserves to die ‘cause of Dean and his incompetence.
"Shit," he's yanking the IV out of his arm, sprawling out of bed, ignoring the pull of pain that’s, well, pretty much everywhere.
Just as Dean’s wondering where the fuck his clothes are, Jimmy rushes into the room, slams the door shut and locks it, "Dean, what are you doing out of bed?"
He looks more flustered than Dean's ever seen him, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, hair fucked up, and Dean takes a second to fully appreciate it, before he notices the gun, "Woah, dude." He puts his hands up. Makes sense that his murderer would be the one person he’s allowed to get close.
Stupid Dean. So fucking stupid.
Jimmy frowns and then apparently realizes he’s pointing a firearm at a guy who up until now has been a patient of his, "I'm not going to shoot you, you ass." He peeks out the small window out into the hallway, "I've been assigned to keep an eye on you.”
Pardon, what now?
" 'Assigned' ? What the fuck?"
Jimmy exhales on a sigh, still not looking at Dean. Instead, he's taking a step back away from the door and raising his… Tokarev ? - Holy shit, that’s a fucking antique Russian semi-automatic - "Yes, the US government has taken an interest in your boss. The one you betrayed this morning by not shooting Johnny Mackline's fifteen-year-old daughter."
Dean doesn’t have many rules. Not shooting kids is one of them. Crowley knows this; set him up to fail, the fucker.
He’d like to blame the inability to grasp the specifics of this batshit situation on the fact that he’s been conscious for less than five minutes, but that’s not the entire truth - this is just a fucking lot. He blinks, "How in the…?"
Something pounds on the other side of the stainless steel door.
Aw, shit.
Jaw clenched, eyes dark and focused on the glass, Jimmy tells him, "In case you haven't noticed, now is not really the best time to be discussing this."
An understatement.
It’s either the Hulk or someone with a battering ram on the other side because they’re actually denting the door and all Jimmy has is a soviet pistol and Dean’s naked ass.
It’s not exactly an arse-nal.
Hah.
“What now?” Dean asks, totally not panicking ‘cause he’s a level-headed assassin, “‘Cause I reckon that door can take maybe another three or four hits like that.”
Thud.
Jimmy glances at him, “Do you trust me?”
No. Yes. Maybe.
“Do I have a choice?”
Thud.
“Not if you want to live.”
“Oooh, you sweet-talker, you. Fine. Can I at least have my clothes?”
Thud.
“They’re in my car.”
Well, fuck. He’s gonna have to go through this inevitable gunfight pantless?
Admittedly, he has done weirder.
Thud.
Unfortunately, Dean’s top-end estimate is proven correct and the door gives way on the fourth strike, and Dean watches on open-mouthed as Jimmy gets in an impressive headshot on the hitman formerly known as Dean’s colleague, Gordon Walker.
The body crumples to the floor and Jimmy follows up that inspiring shot with another on the guy behind Walker. Two bullets, two bodies.
Alrighty then.
It’s over in the blink of an eye and Dean’s having trouble processing that the nurse who has sewn and bandaged him back together with such skilled competence is also a fucking deadeye with a gun.
It feels unfair somehow. Like Dean’s a bruised and broken gremlin compared to this proficient warrior.
Jimmy drops to his haunches, pats Walker down for a gun. He finds a Sig, but it’s empty, so he tosses it, moves on to the other corpse that Dean doesn’t recognize. That pistol is apparently empty as well - a result of the hallway gunfight perhaps - and that goes skittering across the hospital linoleum too as he pushes to his feet.
He steps gingerly over the corpse, turns in the doorway to face Dean, “Are you coming?”
Not yet, but with a bit more foreplay like that? Oh yeah.
“You got a gun for me? Besides the two you’re already packing of course.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Jimmy grinds his teeth like he's weighing up the pros and cons of just shooting Dean himself and being done with the whole messy affair. “I could leave you to die, you know.”
It’s a good point and whilst Dean doesn’t think that Jimmy means it - after all, he’s clearly gone to a lot of trouble to keep Dean alive thus far - he doesn’t wanna push his luck more than he already has. “Okay,” He stiffly climbs over Gordon Walker’s body and tries not to think about the upskirt view he’d be getting if he were still alive, “Lead the way, Jimbo.”
***
Dean stays behind Jimmy like a chick in a horror movie; swivel-eyed, waiting for Jason Vorhees to jump out of one of the several rooms they pass. The first body they come to, Dean ducks down, ignoring the pain in his fucking spleen of all things. Everything aches and he’s been kicked in the ribs plenty of times before, but this feels like he’s ruptured something.
The gun is nothing like his Colt, but it’ll do. He ejects the magazine. Seven bullets out of fifteen left. He can work with that.
Holding the gown closed with his left hand, gun in his right, he hurries to catch up with Jimmy, who’s carefully sneaking past this floor’s circulation desk.
“You couldn’t have at least left me my underwear?” Dean grumble-whispers once he’s next to Jimmy.
Jimmy hisses, “Quiet,” but there’s a twitch of a smile on his plush mouth, and Dean’s glad that at least one of them finds this funny.
The whole place is deserted - devoid of hospital personnel and patients alike - and Dean’s yet to see a single body in scrubs or civvies, which he’s relieved to (not) discover. The silence, the complete lack of life in a place that should be bustling with it, is eerie as fuck. It really does feel like a horror movie or some shit.
Of course, it’s not completely lifeless because in the next second an unnamed hitman abruptly appears in Dean’s periphery, just past the other side of the desk, barrel of his gun aimed squarely at Jimmy’s chest, and so Dean shoots. He doesn’t even think about aiming for the head - no chance he’ll come close right now - and so sets his sights a little lower. The gun kicks in his palm and he gets the guy in the shoulder, the bicep, and then finally, fucking finally , the heart.
A pretty poor showing by anyone’s estimations and Jimmy’s are lower than Atlantis judging by the look he’s currently giving Dean.
“My aim’s a little off, okay?” Dean grouses defensively, “You try shooting someone accurately when you’ve been knifed in the kidney.”
“I have,” Jimmy replies, all matter-of-fact, “The liver too.”
“Alright,” Dean mutters as they resume their trek through the hospital, “Now you’re just showing off.”
Bet your ass wasn't hanging out of a hospital gown though.
From there, it’s like the least fun game of whack-a-mole ever. Every few feet, some try-hard pops up and gets put down by a headshot or in one memorable instance, an air choke that Jimmy saw all the way through to the bitter end until the fucker stopped breathing.
So maybe-definitely the dude isn’t just a nurse.
***
There’s a decision to be made when they need to go down a couple of floors: stairs or elevator? Dean’s not keen on either option; there’s no way that there won’t be assassins lurking in the stairwell or waiting for them at the bottom when the elevator doors ping open. It’s another Hobson’s choice really though because Jimmy immediately ushers him into the elevator. Which is covered in heavy-duty tarpaulin and it’s then that Dean realizes why everywhere is deserted.
It’s because this whole wing of the hospital is being refurbed. It ain’t no coincidence that Dean ended up here.
“You brought me here as bait ?” Dean asks incredulously.
Jimmy jams the button for the ground floor, turns to Dean, eyes bright and hair a riotous mess, “They were already coming here for you. Would you have preferred them to open fire in a hallway full of children and nurses?”
And yeah, so alright. He’s got a point.
***
As predicted, the elevator doors slide open and there are a bunch of highly skilled hitmen waiting for them. They get off a couple of shots, one grazing Dean's shin, but Jimmy's pretty fucking quick. He takes three of the five down and Dean manages to finish off the other two with decent kill shots.
As they exit the elevator, Jimmy ducks, picks up a couple of semi-automatics from the corpses, hands one off to Dean.
“You’re getting better. Keep it up and I might start thinking that you do this for a living.”
Asshole.
***
They’re almost to the parking lot - freedom is right fucking there - when they get ambushed. Dean’s crouched in front of a gurney, thigh muscles aching like a bitch due to this morning’s attempt to tenderize his flesh through the use of knuckle dusters. Jimmy is a couple of paces ahead of him, moving easily and fluidly, the fucker. Since they left the ER, Jimmy’s taken down at least a dozen high-level assassins without breaking a sweat or using more than a single bullet each time, and Dean’s crush is intensifying to teenage girl levels. Whoever the guy really is, he ain’t one to be fucked with.
Which is a shame. ‘Cause that’s pretty much all Dean’s wanted to do since he met his very own nurse-badass fantasy.
The ambush comes from a handful of guys determined to prove themselves more competent than their peers upstairs. In fairness to them, if they had virtually anyone else as their opponent, they would be doing a fine job of trying to murder Dean, but Jimmy is just too good .
Except for a slight blip when he gets distracted by Dean when he’s winded by a punch to the knife wound over his kidney. It knocks all the breath out of him in a pained whoosh of air, and Dean's gun gets lost in the ensuing scuffle but Dean’s not a quitter. He goes down, but he takes the fucker with him. He notices a bedpan on the lower shelf of the gurney, grabs it. He begins blindly hitting backward with metallic thunks, going to town on the heavy body wrapped around him from behind, trying to squeeze the life out of him.
Unfortunately, all it takes is a split second in this business. And whilst he’s momentarily distracted by Dean on the floor, Jimmy gets the cold muzzle of a gun pressed to his temple by the one remaining assassin.
Oh, shit.
Thankfully, the octopus to Dean’s Fisherman’s Wife is knocked out cold by his persistence which frees Dean up to help Jimmy.
Though how, he hasn’t quite figured out yet.
All he has is a bedpan and his razor-sharp wit.
Eh, he’s killed people with less.
He rises to his feet, leaving the bedpan on the padded bit of the gurney, hands above his head. Luckily the hospital gown - now with pretty daubs of red - is long enough to stop him from flashing the goods. Just.
“It’s me you want, right? So let him go, yeah?”
Jimmy swears under his breath in what Dean instantly recognizes as Russian. Really, it shouldn’t have taken him this long to figure it out.
In his defense though, he did pick Jimmy’s accent out as Balto-Slavic language and has given it precisely zero thought since then.
“Когда я подам сигнал, ты пойдешь налево,” Dean says, “да?”
“да,” Jimmy confirms with reluctant admiration.
As soon as the word is out of his mouth, Dean reaches for the bedpan, launches it at Jimmy’s captor. It connects in his first headshot of the day, catching the guy off guard enough to let Jimmy free with the dude’s gun and for Dean to get close. The assassin throws a fist as soon as Dean’s within swinging distance, but it’s clunky enough that it only grazes Dean’s chin, and allows Dean to grab his forearm, twisting it downward. At the same time, Dean brings his knee up and into contact with the bridge of the guy’s thin nose with a splintering crack that sends his head snapping backward. Jimmy is right there behind the assassin, gun to his forehead, and the single shot has him dropping dead to the linoleum.
“Nice,” Dean gasps, hobbling toward the main doors with an arm banded around his stomach, and they finally exit the hospital, dashing (shambling) across the lot to a Lincoln Continental.
Dean checks for his clothes on the back seat. Yup. All neatly folded with his boots in the footwell. He gingerly climbs into the front passenger seat whilst Jimmy starts the engine.
"So, where to now?” He asks a little nervously as they pull out of the lot, “Are you going to take me into headquarters or whatever?"
"No."
Oh.
"No? But I thought--"
Jimmy taps his fingers against the steering wheel. He sighs, "For all your faults - and I've cataloged a lot --"
Little harsh, but okay.
"-- I just don’t see you as being the type to turn on anyone.” He glances at Dean, challenging him to say that he’s wrong. He’s not, so Dean doesn’t, “Even when they're trying to kill you. That's all the agency I work for would want from you."
So that’s it? Adios?
"O--kay. So drop me off home. I can figure shit out from there."
He might not have long before more assassins crawl out of the woodwork, but at least he’ll be able to put on some pants. Maybe even pack a bag.
“I think you know that it’s not that simple. If Crowley doesn’t get to you first, then the agency - when they realize that I’m not bringing you in - will. And they have a lot more resources."
Fuuuuuuuuck.
Dean tilts his head back against the seat headrest. He doesn’t say anything; finally speechless. Which Jimmy is probably enjoying immensely.
Man, there's nothing that doesn't suck about this. He's probably gonna have a serious case of the deads by the end of the day. And to top it off? No more Jimmy - he's never gonna see the dude again. The only person who's ever risked life and limb to save Dean's ass. And for what? He’s undoubtedly gonna be in trouble with his bosses too for letting Dean escape.
Nobody wins here.
The silence in the car drags on for a couple of miles until Jimmy says, "Look, I know what it's like to be on the run. It’s not easy, but it is possible to stay under the radar. I can help, if you’ll let me.”
Dean looks at him. He has a lot of questions, but the most pressing one is, "Who are you?"
Jimmy sighs, "My name's Castiel Krushnic. I'm an ex-KGB agent recruited to work for an undisclosed government agency here in the US in exchange for amnesty."
Oh.
Dean can't help it, he laughs, "Dude, the KGB went the way of the Union in the freakin' nineties. There's no way. Unless you look remarkably good for your age, which I don't entirely doubt, but you'd have to be at least fifty to even be close to plausible."
"If you think that the most efficient military service in the world dissolved with the union then I have some magic beans to sell you."
Yep. This is waaaaay above Dean's paygrade.
Jimmy isn’t Jimmy, he’s Castiel. A killing machine from mother Russia who has most likely seen and done shit that Dean couldn’t even imagine.
Well, Dean sure does know how to pick 'em.
"Maybe you should get dressed."
Now he knows what he knows, it feels less like a suggestion and more like a thinly-veiled order. One that a more sensible person would probably obey. Dean’s never been one for self-preservation though, he’s not about to start now, “Why Ji-- Cas-tee-el , anyone would think that you’re distracted by my pretty legs.”
“You’re one big distraction,” Castiel mutters, not sounding all that put out about it.
Huh.
Dean does need to get dressed though, so whilst Castiel fumbles with the knobs of the radio - tuning it in to some soft rock station, under the weak pretense of not getting a good look at Dean’s bare ass - Dean awkwardly clambers into the back seat.
It’s nothing the dude hasn’t seen before, but things are just a tiny bit different now.
Settled on the back seat, Dean pops the studs on the gown, each individual plastic snap loud even with the background music. He slowly drags the cotton fabric off his body and catches Castiel stealing glimpses of him through the rearview mirror, before his eyes dart away and back to the road.
Dean’s getting some serious Patrick Swayze/ Jennifer Grey vibes here.
Maybe a little more x-rated though. Especially considering Dean’s half-hard from the adrenaline and whatever the fuck this is between them.
Emboldened by the thick tension in the car and the thrill of not dying, praying to God-Shiva-Ronald-Mc-fucking-Donald that he’s reading this right, Dean reaches down to cup his dick, heat pooling in his groin and he lets a low moan slip past his lips.
The car sways to the right. Just a little - which thank fuck, ‘cause he’d been prepared to go out in a hail of bullets, a butt naked car crash though? Yeah, not so much.
Worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, Dean strokes his cock, spreading his legs to get comfortable. The leather seat is sticking to the sweat-sheen of his skin, but it’s kinda hard to care when he meets Castiel’s hued eyes in the mirror, and what he sees in the heavy-lidded stare - as much a warning as an invitation - makes his dick jerk in his fist.
“Cas,” He murmurs, the name rolling off his tongue as a blurt of precome forms at the tip of his cock, fully hard and aching now.
“Fuck,” Castiel bites out and Dean lets his eyes close with a sigh, stomach muscles trembling, and he starts thrusting into the curve of his palm proper, heart thumping hard and fast enough to crack his ribs.
He thumbs the slit on the upstroke, whines, and the car swerves again, but this time it’s sharper - deliberate - and they’re pulling over at the side of the - mercifully deserted - road.
Finally.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Dean urges as Castiel kills the engine before climbing into the backseat with a lot more grace than Dean had managed, situating himself between the spread of Dean’s legs, mouth finding Dean’s. Bodies flush, nothing between them but fabric and skin, they kiss, lips dragging wetly between teasing scrapes of teeth and presses of tongue. Dean opens up for him, letting Castiel take what he wants, those dexterous fingers tightening through the short strands of Dean’s hair, holding him exactly where Castiel needs him as they practically devour each other, kissing wetly, slide of tongues and catch of lips.
It’s messy and stupid and fucking perfect.
Keyed-up on the adrenaline and need, on Castiel’s scent and pure nearness, Dean slips his fingers under Castiel’s scrub top, finally getting at skin after all these months of their touching being one-sided and clinical. Dean arches into him, dragging his palms over Castiel’s lithe but strong body, nerves shuddering and hands clinging.
Castiel’s cock is hard against the jut of Dean’s hipbone, easy to feel through the barely-there confines of his scrubs and Dean’s going a little wild with the zero to sixty of it all. He laughs breathlessly when Castiel surges forward, sucking blood-rich marks into Dean’s jaw and neck, barely scraping enough brain cells together to utter, “Hey doc,” Dean grips at Castiel’s hips, hanging on for dear life “--I hope you passed CPR, because you’re taking my breath away.”
Castiel makes a muffled sound of disappointment against Dean’s skin; a low vibration over his throat that makes him squirm. Castiel lifts his head, cheeks flushed, blue eyes completely swallowed by black, “Do you ever shut up?”
Dean grins, toothy and wide, “I mean, I would say that you should try making me, but we both know that whilst I may have the right to remain silent, I don’t actually have the ability.” He rolls his hips upwards, dragging Castiel’s head down to whisper hot and heavy in his ear, “You sure you want me to shut up though? You don’t want me to tell you all the things I’ve thought about doing to you? Everything I want you to do to me? How I’ve jerked off, thinking about your hands on me…?”
“Dean,” Castiel’s voice scrapes low, all dirty-hot want, and then his hand is between the crush of their bodies, wrapping around Dean’s dick, sticky with precome, and Dean’s eyes roll back in his head, fucking up into that perfect, firm grip.
“Oh, fuck. Please, fucking touch me, Cas.”
Castiel swallows Dean’s words, licks them out of his mouth, fingers pulling and sliding over Dean’s cock. Dean twists underneath him, feverish with want and need. He has to touch more of this beautiful man, has been fantasizing about it for months, so he tucks his thumbs into the elastic waistband of Cas’ scrubs, drags them over the curve of his perfect ass, down his thighs along with his underwear, his gorgeous thick, long, cock springing up hard and flushed, and curled toward his stomach.
Castiel slicks a thumb over the head of Dean’s dick, makes Dean jack-knife against him. The movement hurts, but it’s a minor sensation compared to the ohsogood one that Castiel is dragging out of him with every pass of his palm against the hot flesh of Dean’s cock. Teeth in Dean’s throat, he growls when Dean returns the favor; getting a hand around Cas' thick length, closing his fingers into an easy fist, trying to catch the stuttered rhythm, frantic with the need to see Castiel come for him, because of him.
“Oh shit,” He cries out, voice thick, grip on Castiel’s bicep bruise-tight, other hand working his cock, drift of his mouth against Cas’ skin.
Dean can feel the heat building between them, can feel the way Cas’ cock jerks with every moan Dean makes. His thighs are trembling, every muscle in his body pulled taut, skin against skin, as they breathe each other in, stuttered drag of stubble from where they’re cheek to cheek, hitched exhales hot and humid, bodies chasing their release.
“Cas, you gonna? Please-- Come for me Cas. Wanna see it, wanna feel it…” He exhales on a shaky, ragged breath, cock steel hard in Cas’ fist, “So fucking hot.”
Head tilted back against the leather, back arched, Dean swears his heart stops a half-second before he comes, nothing but static in his brain as he spills over Castiel’s hand and in the scant space between their bodies. Cas follows Dean over an airless moment later, head dropping to Dean’s sweaty collarbone, panting harshly against the tacky skin, hips still twitching with the aftershocks of his orgasm.
Because he just can’t not , Dean pants, “Was that an earthquake or did you just rock my world?”
In retaliation, Castiel collapses bodily on top of him, all sticky and gross, and Dean responds with a soft ‘oof’ , but doesn’t deign to say anything else, just lays there in blissful agony.
He’s probably opened his stitches, but luckily for him, he knows a guy who’s pretty proficient with a needle and thread.
Cas’ low rumble reverberates through Dean’s chest when he eventually says, “I have somewhere we can go for now until we can get you out of the country."
Dean’s pretty sure he’ll go anywhere as long as he gets to do that again.
"Alright,” He says slowly, then adds, “I gotta ask though. Why are you doing all this for me?"
There’s nothing but silence for what seems like an endless amount of time before Castiel replies, "What can I say, you must be a coronary artery, because you’ve wrapped yourself around my heart.”
Ten out of ten, Krushnic.