Chapter Text
A gust of crisp air fills Dean’s lungs as he takes a deep, settling breath. There’s a buzz in the air on campus — it’s the first week of classes and the reality of homework and exams hasn’t yet kicked in for all the starry-eyed students, Dean included.
The University of Kansas campus is a lot bigger than the community college Dean attended the last two years. They have an imposing Gothic-style library that screams “academia,” a supposedly world-renowned basketball arena and football field, a fountain that, according to Charlie, is on for the Fall Welcome and then turned off for the remainder of the year until spring comes around, and many parks and squares with massive green lawns and trees covering every corner.
Dean is in one of those trees right now, and from where he sits, he can see students fill the many benches and picnic tables that are spread across the area. Some students sit on the grass, books spread around them. Others take advantage of the sunny late summer day with frisbees and Spikeball.
Dean watches them all from his hiding spot — a comfortable branch on one of the larger trees in the grove. He’s hyper focused on the faces below him, keeping an eye out for one lanky, mop-haired giant when he’s startled by a buzz in his pocket. It’s a text from Charlie.
He found me! Are you still in? Where are you?
He types out a hasty reply.
Still hiding. Good thing I found a comfortable spot
Dean and Charlie have been best friends since high school. Aside from Sam and Bobby, Charlie was the most excited to hear that Dean was transferring to KU, where she had been studying for the past three years. It took some mental gymnastics for Dean to figure out how to make it work, but between scholarships and financial aid, he managed to secure the funding to make it possible. Sam was already set to attend as a freshman, and Dean’s decision to transfer turned the semester into a full Winchester-Bradbury reunion.
The game was actually Charlie’s suggestion to familiarize Dean and a few others with the campus. At least that's what she said it was for, but knowing Charlie, Dean thinks she just wanted to play a massive game of hide-and-seek. Either that or she was looking for an excuse to hang out with her most recent crush. (Maybe both.) Once the idea was planted, she was quick to gather a group of her friends and organize the event for an afternoon they didn’t have classes. Dean didn’t miss that Dorothy, the girl Charlie’s been hanging out with, was part of that group.
As long as they’re playing, though, Dean is in it to win it. When he found the extra bushy tree in the grove with a thick enough trunk to support him, he scampered up without hesitation. It turned out to be a good hiding spot, too. A few students have come and gone from near his tree, but none have looked up and seen him.
There’s a rustle beneath Dean that catches his attention; another student looking for a place to sit. Dean can’t see his face well, but he notices the messy head of dark hair and broad shoulders. The guy is wearing a cozy-looking sweater and, inexplicably, a shabby blue necktie. If Dean didn’t know better, he would think it was part of a uniform. The necktie-clad guy looks around a bit for another place to sit, but eventually settles on Dean’s tree. He pulls a book out of his bag and settles in.
Dean watches him a while longer, seeing if he can make out what he’s reading. (He can’t.) There’s something about the stranger that has him curious. Maybe it’s his rigid posture. Even sitting criss-cross applesauce the guy’s back is ramrod straight. Perhaps it’s the way his dark curls have a warm brown tint when the sun catches it just right. He wonders if he should say something — he doesn’t want to give the guy a heart attack, and he doubts anyone would expect to find someone hiding up in a tree — but before he can even open his mouth, he hears a deep snarl behind him.
It’s actually more of a chirp, but when Dean turns to look at the squirrel that showed up out of nowhere, he can see the evil glint in its eye. Dean waves at it wildly in an attempt to get it to peacefully move away. He tries not to make any noise to startle the focused student under the tree, but the squirrel is unfazed by his silent gestures and inches even closer. It’s on a mission, and Dean is powerless to stop it.
The next moment, it’s latched onto Dean’s shoe. What the fuck is wrong with this squirrel? Has it no fear? What does it want from him? Questions whirl in his head as panic sets in, and Dean racks his brain on what diseases squirrels carry. Is it rabies? The plague? Dean vaguely remembers Bobby telling him that squirrels carry the plague back when he insisted on hand-feeding the squirrels in the backyard. (He was seven.)
No game of hide-and-seek is worth the fucking Black Death.
“Shit! Shit, get off me!! Fuck!” Dean shouts, swinging his foot. The demon rodent is hanging tightly onto his shoe like his life depends on it (which, to be fair it probably did with how Dean was moving). The squirrel is screaming now, and Dean’s never heard a squirrel scream, but it’s enough to fully convince him that the thing is possessed. It’s clear that the plague-carrying tree-rat won’t stop until it gets Dean out of its tree. But how was Dean supposed to know that this particular tree was owned by the devil incarnate himself? When the kicking doesn’t work, Dean tries knocking his heel against the branch. An especially forceful knock against the tree has Dean’s slipping to the side, and —
“Oh fuc—”
His ungraceful grunt is loud enough to be heard over the cracking branches that follow him down. The silver lining is that his back finds the rough tree trunk that catches onto his clothing as he begins sliding down, head first. By the time he’s nearing the tree roots, he’s sliding painfully slowly down to the bottom—
—where he locks eyes with the stranger.
The stranger is looking at him curiously (or is he looking at him judgingly? Dean hopes it's the former), his head cocked to one side. His thick brows are furrowed like he has a question but doesn’t know where to start. Dean doesn’t blame him. He probably wouldn’t know what to say to him either.
The good news is that the squirrel is no longer on his foot.
The bad news is that his shoe is also no longer on his foot.
“Uhm.” His attempt at conversation is derailed when he looks down (up?) at his feet and sees that the squirrel has managed to keep his shoe. “Well, fuck.”
His silent companion still hasn’t said anything, eyes narrowing even further like he’s analyzing the scene unfolding before him. Dean can see him better from down here, albeit his view is slightly warped from being upside down. The guy’s eyes are a bright blue that match the necktie that he wears. Close-up, the tie is even shabbier than Dean thought. It’s poorly tied, too, with the worn ends twisting awkwardly. Absently, Dean wonders if the guy would let him re-tie it for him.
Dean’s wildly intrusive thought is interrupted by a small thunk. It’s Dean’s shoe landing between the two of them. Mini Satan in the tree seems to have finally figured out that Dean’s shoe carried nothing of importance to it.
Only then, Dean realizes that he’s still laying upside down against a tree, shoeless foot in the air, like an idiot, in front of this stranger.
“Dammit,” he mutters under his breath, finally making an effort to turn himself upright. Blood rushes to his head as he scurries to stand back up. He sways back toward the tree, but manages to catch himself.
Finally upright and stable, Dean opens his mouth to blurt out an apology for probably ruining this person’s afternoon, but his voice gets caught in the back of his throat.
The stranger is on one knee, holding out Dean’s sneaker toward him. He doesn’t seem to mind that it’s well worn and covered in dirt (and possibly the Plague). He wordlessly tilts it toward Dean like Dean is fucking Cinderella, and Dean is left completely speechless.
It doesn’t help that the guy might be the hottest human Dean has ever seen. Now that he isn’t looking from above a tree or deciphering his features upside down, Dean can fully appreciate the guy’s features. His blue eyes are a glowing reflection of the clear skies, and he has a sharp jawline that has Dean feeling both jealous and tingly.
“Thank—” He’s just about to thank the guy and apologize, when he sees a familiar figure out of the corner of his eyes.
Sam is at the far end of the grove, scanning the field in search of hiders.
“Shit!” Dean snatches the shoe from the stranger's hand and doesn't even take the time to put it on. “Thanks, gotta go,” he mumbles in the guy’s direction as he takes off.
Dean thinks he hears a voice call after him, but his focus is shifted to his brother, who's now taking slow steps closer to where Dean is fully exposed on the lawn. Dean scans the area around him for a way to sneakily get away, but somehow he has ended up in a spot with not even a single bush for cover. He glances back at Sam, and decides to make a run for it while he’s looking through some random bushes (total amateur hour – Dean would never simply hide in a bush).
Running without one shoe proves to be awkward and uncomfortable. Dean nearly trips over in pain when his socked foot hits a tree root, but he keeps going. He's almost at the exit of the grove and sees a dumpster that he could use as a temporary hiding spot. He's so close, he can taste the victory.
Then it all comes crumbling down.
“I found you!”
Sam shouts from across the lawn. Dean knows it's over the moment he hears that annoying little I-got-you voice. His run slows into a trot, and eventually comes to a stop. Jogging footsteps catch up to him.
“Jeez, Dean, have you ever played hide-and-seek? You aren't supposed to run,” Sam groans through labored breath. He pauses. “Why aren't you wearing your shoe?”
Dean looks down at his muddy sock. “It’s… a long story.” He looks back to where he ran from, suddenly conscious of how rude he must have come across. The guy must think Dean’s an asshole for running off when he tried to help him with his shoe.
The blue-eyed stranger is nowhere to be seen.
*****
“You actually fell off a tree?” Charlie asks, leaning far enough forward so her head is almost by Dean’s. There’s a mix of incredulity and respect in her voice.
They’re on their way to Charlie’s for dinner, with the familiar tones of AC/DC blasting over Dean’s ‘67 Chevy Impala speakers.
“I have to give it to you, Dean. I don’t think I would’ve looked up in a tree for a casual game of hide-and-seek,” Sam adds. Even with his eyes on the road, Dean can hear Sam rolling his eyes.
Dean knows he would’ve won the game if it weren’t for that determined devil. There’s no way that thing was a normal squirrel. Now with some distance, he recalls the squirrel being two, three times the size of a usual squirrel. He’s sure of it.
“I just feel bad, man. I almost fell on the guy and I didn’t even apologize.”
“Tell me what he looked like again?” Charlie asks. “I wonder if I’ve seen him around campus.”
Dean shrugs. “I didn’t actually talk to him at all. Messy dark hair, bright blue eyes, he was wearing a tie, and he —” Dean trails off, figuring that Charlie and Sam didn’t need to hear about the guy’s angular jawline.
He sees Charlie lean back into her seat. “Sounds like any other guy on campus — well, except for the tie, I guess. It’s too bad, it would have been an adorable meet cute if I could introduce you.”
“A meet cute?” Sam looks back at Charlie.
She nods and explains, “It’s what they call the scene in a rom com where the two leads meet.”
Dean had never heard of the term, but he chuckles. “Sounds a bit too chick-flicky to me.”
“Don’t get all toxic-macho on me now.” Charlie scrunches up her nose. “I think it’s cute.”
“He did offer my shoe to me as if he was Prince Charming or some shit.” Dean laughs at the mental image.
He regrets the phrasing the moment he sees Charlie’s shoulders rise in excitement through the rearview mirror. Based on the sparkle in her eyes, no doubt she’s thinking of all the ways she can reunite Dean with the mystery Prince Charming that she doesn’t even know. But just as Charlie is about to respond, the car goes silent.
A lack of music is not something Dean takes lightly.
“Dude!” Dean exclaims when he sees Sam’s finger on the volume dial. “You don’t just turn off AC/DC like that. Show some respect!”
“I can barely hear Charlie,” Sam argues.
“You know the rules. The driver picks the music?” He eyes Sam expectantly.
Sam crosses his arms and slumps into his seat. “The passenger shuts his cakehole. Whatever.”
Dean huffs and turns the music back on. The kid has a point, though (not that Dean would ever admit it). Dean doesn’t turn the music back up quite as loud.
“Anyway,” he continues. “Let’s be real, I’ll probably never see him again.”
Charlie looks out her window and hums. “You never know. Maybe it’s meant to be.”
Dean checks the time on his phone before slipping it back into the breast pocket of his leather jacket. He has a couple of hours to kill before his next class; enough time to pick up a coffee at his favorite coffee shop.
Heavenly Brews is only a few blocks off campus. The owner of the shop, Gabriel, is annoying as shit, but Dean has to admit that he makes a good strong cup of coffee and the best pastries in town. Once Dean got used to his inherent need to make a joke out of everything and pry for life details of all of his regulars, he wasn’t all that bad.
Dean weaves his way past students rushing to their classes, absently scanning the crowds for blue eyes and a messy head of hair. Ever since the hide-and-seek incident, his brain won’t let go of the mystery stranger. Not necessarily for any romantic reasons like Charlie assumes (sure, he’s hot as shit, but that’s beside the point), but Dean was hoping he’d get a chance to apologize. He hasn’t had any luck so far, and on a campus of over thirty thousand students, it’s unlikely that Dean would ever run into the guy again.
He turns a corner, giving up on his search for now, when he hears a high-pitched shout.
“Watch out!”
It takes a split second for the scene to register.
A group of students on the sidewalk have wide eyes glued on something in the road. Dean turns to see what they’re looking at— a man hunched over in the middle of the street, clearly wrestling with something in front of him. From where he stands, Dean can’t tell what the guy has in his hands. He seems to be mumbling, but with all the commotion around him, Dean can’t make out any of what he’s saying.
What Dean can see, and what seems to be the cause of the warning call he just heard, is the car coming their way with no sign of slowing down. Dean’s eyes dart between the crouching figure and the car. There’s maybe a few seconds for the guy to get out of the street, but he seems fully focused on what’s in his hands.
Instinct takes over.
Dean drops his book bag on the sidewalk and runs into the street. An ear-piercing honk fills the air, close enough to Dean that he knows a second of hesitation could mark the end. Someone screams from the sidewalk as Dean tackles the man from behind, grabbing tightly onto his waist and shoving him out of the street. Relief washes over him when he feels the man’s body yield with no resistance. With the amount of force Dean put into the tackle, he quickly realizes that he won’t have control over their landing — he brings a hand up to protect the back of the stranger’s head and holds the man tightly against his body.
They land on the opposing sidewalk with a loud thud, rolling over from the momentum, but never letting go of each other. The concrete is brutal on the back of Dean’s hand, but Dean only pulls the man in closer. Their legs get intertwined in the tumble, locking their bodies against each other. Even after they stop moving, Dean is still grasping onto the person with his eyes squeezed shut and his heart beating out of his chest. With the way the man’s body is pressed up against his, he’s sure the guy can feel his pounding heart.
Dean feels the man’s breath against his neck, grounding him back to reality. His breaths are shockingly even for having experienced a near-death moment, but it helps Dean regulate his own breathing. Dean takes a few deep breaths before he’s certain enough of their safety to loosen his grip. Only then, he realizes that he’s laying on top of the guy. He quickly pushes himself up, ready to yell at the guy for being so reckless, but the words die at the tip of his tongue.
Familiar blue eyes gaze back into his. The eyes he’s been searching for all week.
“It’s you,” Dean breathes out.
The stranger squints, tilting his head gently to the side. He opens his mouth to reply —
“Mew.”
Dean blinks. That can't be right. The two look at each other, the other guy looking just as stunned as Dean feels. Their eyes remain locked for a moment longer, then in unison, they travel down to the guy’s arms, where he’s holding a tiny black kitten.
An adorable, tiny, very fluffy black kitten.
Which Dean is extremely allergic to.
“Mew,” the kitten says again.
It’s as if seeing the cat reminded him of his allergies, because the effect is immediate. Dean feels an itch in his eyes, a tickle in his throat. It all happens so quickly that Dean doesn't even have a chance to lift himself off and away from the man.
“AHCHOOOOOOO!”
Their surroundings go quiet as everyone around them stills. Through the stunned silence, Dean hears an onlooker whisper, “Ew, gross.”
Dread is the only word that can describe what Dean feels in the moment. He blinks once, twice, three times, and finally finds it in him to look back at the stranger's face.
The man is frozen, eyes widened in a horrified state. Dean is close enough to see the many, many droplets of spit that he just showered the hot stranger in.
“Holy shit,” is all Dean can muster. He jumps up, his legs tangling in a panicked fluster. It's only by the grace of anything holy that he manages not to trip over himself as he backs up across the street to grab his bag. Though at this point, perhaps the world would be doing him a favor if he just tripped in front of another car.
The other guy hasn't moved. He's still where Dean left him, tiny kitten in his arms, spit on his face. He’s managed to sit up, but is otherwise stock-still like he's too stunned to move or say anything (Dean can't blame him).
“HolyshitI’msosorryIhopeyouaren’thurt!” Dean blurts out, almost shouting it this time as he runs past the still speechless man.
Dean doesn’t stop at Heavenly Brews; it’s far too close to the scene of the crime, and who knows if a witness might come through the door while he's there. He only stops running after he’s a safe enough distance away. His heart is racing, an uncomfortable layer of sweat covers his back, and neither are from the running. He needs somewhere private where he can recover from the last three minutes (if that’s even possible), and he knows exactly where to go.
*****
“Oh my god, what did you do to your hand?”
When Dean arrives at Charlie's apartment, out of breath and no doubt disheveled, his mangled hand is the first thing she clocks.
“It’s, uh —” Dean looks down at his bloodied hand, unsure what to say. He had pretty much forgotten about it in all the commotion. The adrenaline must have kept his pain at bay. Now that he’s looking at it, he’s cognizant of the throbbing pain that comes from the injury. He tries to settle his breathing. “Kind of a weird story.”
Charlie moves to the side and makes space for him. “Come in, let me take a look at it.”
Dean stumbles in, following her directions and heading to the kitchen. When they get there, Charlie sits him down on a stool at the kitchen island. She pours him a cup of water and instructs him to stay still while she gets her first aid kit.
Dean gulps down the water, appreciating the cold liquid against his lips. It takes him a few minutes, but eventually his heaving breaths calm down. He looks around Charlie’s kitchen, trying to find something to center himself with.
A Star Wars calendar on the wall. Jar Jar Binks was prominently featured in the image of the month, but Charlie had covered his face with a post-it reminder to buy toilet paper.
The water glass in his hands. It’s designed like a Joja Cola can from Stardew Valley, with details down to the calorie count.
Her DnD inspired tea towels that hang on her oven handle. Dean gifted them to her, knowing that she’d love the rainbow D20 motif.
By the time Charlie returns with her first aid kit, Dean’s mostly recollected his composure. He releases a deep sigh, mixed with a huge groan.
“Yeah, good to see you, too,” Charlie quips. She takes his cup away and goes to pour another.
Dean frowns at her, but thanks her when she returns with more water. “You remember that guy from hide-and-seek?”
“The one you almost fell on and won't shut up about?” She picks up his scraped-up hand and inspects it.
“I don't talk about hi — whatever, that isn't the point.” He winces when Charlie’s fingers get too close to one of the cuts. “I, uh, saw him again today.”
Charlie looks up, eyes wide. “What?! No way! Did you get his name? Does he have as much of a crush on you as you do on him?”
Dean can barely process her rapidfire questions. “I, no, what, no. I don't have a crush on the guy, and I didn't get his name.” He shakes his head.
Charlie’s shoulders deflate as she goes back to the task at hand (no pun intended). “Putting aside the fact that you obviously have a massive crush on him, how could you meet him again and not talk to him?” She pulls him over to the sink and puts his hand under the spout. “Is it because you don’t know how to flirt with guys?”
“It’s not —” Dean sputters. He can feel heat rising to his cheeks. When the water starts, it’s like hundreds of ice cold needles jabbing at the back of his hand. He almost jerks away at the sharp pain. “Shit, Charlie, a little warning could’ve been nice!” She ignores him, so Dean continues, his voice is quiet and whiney. “I could flirt with a guy if I wanted to.”
“Suuuuuuuuure.” Once the blood is washed away, she pats at Dean’s hand gently with a clean towel. Dean sees watered down blood get on the fabric, and hopes it’ll come out clean in the wash. He’d hate for Charlie to lose a perfectly good towel.
“It’s not that,” Dean grumbles. He lets Charlie lead him back to the island.
“So why then?” She pulls out an antiseptic wipe.
Dean braces himself for the sting. It gives him some time to figure out how to go over what happened. His lips refuse to move, preemptively embarrassed by what he’s about to share.
“So I was headed to Heavenly Brews and just as I was turning on twenty-third, I heard someone scream ‘watch out.’”
Charlie is focused on his hand, but from the way her brows furrow in response, Dean can tell she’s invested.
“There was a guy in the street, and a car was coming right at him. Scary shit, right?” he huffs when he sees Charlie’s brows shoot up. His shoulders relax when Charlie finishes with the wipes. The worst pain should be over just in time for the story to get to its worst. “So naturally I had to help. I tackled the guy to the sidewalk.”
Charlie gasps. “You could have been seriously injured! You’re lucky you got out with just some scrapes on your hand.” She gently places a gauze on his hand, getting ready to bandage it up.
“I couldn’t just let him get hit,” Dean counters. “Well it turned out, it was the guy from hide-and-seek.”
There’s a pause. Charlie’s hands still mid-wrap, and the silence lasts long enough that Dean wonders if she heard his last sentence.
Then she releases a shrill shriek. “Oh. My. GOD DEAN!” Her exclamation is accompanied by a rough tug on the bandage she’s wrapping Dean’s hand with. When Dean’s hand jolts in reaction, she shrugs, her teeth bared in an awkward apologetic cringe. “Sorry.” She loosens the bandage. “Okay but keep going! So you saved his life from a speeding car! Practically his knight in shining armor!”
Clearly Charlie has taken a few liberties in her interpretation, but Dean lets it slide. “So I push him over to the sidewalk, we’re plastered together from the tackle, I’m basically draped over him, and he has a kitten in his hands.”
He can practically see Charlie swoon. “He saved a kitten? This guy sounds dreamy!”
“Yeah well,” Dean hedges.
“Wait, aren’t you super allergic to cats?” Charlie’s hands pause again.
Dean nods.
“Like, immediate sneezefest allergic?”
Dean nods, again. He sees the moment Charlie realizes what happened.
“And you’re draped over him,” she repeats. “Oh no.”
“Yup,” he replies. “So I’m hovering over the guy, and I sneeze. Right in his face.”
Charlie physically cringes as she secures Dean’s bandages with some med tape. “Yikes.”
“On bikes,” Dean adds. He groans again and folds over the table. He plops his head on an arm, staying mindful of his newly bandaged other hand.
“Maybe it wasn’t that bad?” Charlie tries, her tone consoling.
“Spit. All over his face. I saw it. I can’t unsee it.” Dean shudders just recalling the incident.
Charlie rubs his back gently. “Aw, I’m sorry Dean. For what it’s worth, I’m sure a face full of spit is still better than being smooshed by a car.”
The thought makes Dean chuckle. Charlie has a point. He pushes himself up away from the table and sighs.
“It’s fine. I’ll probably never see him again anyway.”
This time, Dean almost hopes it’s true.
Almost.