let's work out with papa

---

Furnace-hot, Cas moves in next to him. “Do you want me to take over so you can sit? Forgive me, but... I can see you’re in pain.”

Which sends Dean's hackles up instantly. Old habit. Bitchy one, too. Miles long resentment of people telling him what he is and isn’t capable of, based on their assessment of how he has to live his own trashfire life. “I’m good,” he bites out, clipped.

“I... Fuck.” Cas rounds down on himself, somehow both pathetic and adorable. “That was the wrong thing to say to you.”

“No. No, it’s just...” Fermented bitterness bubbling up, the toxic slime of having to defend his competence to abled-bodied looky-loos harbouring a bunch of stupid assumptions. “It’s a sore spot. I’m sorry. You mean well, but... I got this.” He offers up a placating, close-lipped smile.

Cas sighs. Nods. Doesn’t straighten out. “Let me explain. I know you’re capable. Clearly,” he says, looking around the whole room, as if Dean’s spotless kitchen is indicative of anything other than an OCD streak. “But, I’m a massage therapist, and I work primarily with people who are in pain. I know it when I see it, and sometimes I... overstep.”

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 n’ Handsome with his gigantic mitts all over the tenderest body meats? Jesus H. Christ. “You feel people up for a living, huh?” Dean teases.

Turns out they can both say stupid things. 

Cas reaches for his beer and gives him a cold (massive) shoulder. “Not that kind of massage." There’s resignation in it. Like every loser asshole he’s ever told about his work has made the same godawful joke.

“You’ve... You’ve heard that one before.” Dean, defeated, notices a splotch of oil he missed when he last sponged the stovetop.