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Dean sat back in his chair and cracked his knuckles while he waited for his newly-finished report to print. He'd been working on it for most of the day and had had to stay after hours to finish it. But it was finally done. He just had to staple it and turn it in on Bobby's desk and then he could go-
OUT OF PAPER. OUT OF PAPER. OUT OF PAPER.
Dean glared at his printer. Of course it had to run out of paper now. It was probably a corporate scheme to keep him in the office for the rest of his life. He sighed, but got up and started the trek to the supply closet down the hall.
Most of the lights in the building were off, but the light at the end of the hall flickered eerily. Dean wondered if he'd wandered into a horror movie. A tired office worker, a dimly light hallway, and a killer that used reams of paper as a murder weapon. It would be very compelling.
The door to the supply closet was already open, but the light inside was off. Damn interns, always leaving the door open. Dean had been working at the company long enough to find where they kept the paper without turning on the light, but halfway to the slim shelf in the back of the closet, Dean ran into something solid. And warm. He sucked in a panicked breath and took a step backward, but his foot caught on the wedge of wood holding the door open. He fell backward as the door swung shut.
Dean landed on his butt and hit his head against a metal shelf. Fuck, fuck, fuck he was going to die. He was going to be murdered in a supply closet. His head throbbed and his eyes struggled to adjust to the complete darkness.
"Hello?" a deep, gravely voice said. "Are you okay?" Since when did murderers ask you if you were alright? And it was not the voice that Dean expected from a serial killer. It was slightly familiar and almost... sexy?
Dean's heart stopped it's ascension into his throat. Maybe he wasn't going to be murdered after all. "Who are you?"
"My name is Castiel. Who are you?" The name was unfamiliar to him, but the voice tickled his memory.
"Dean. Dean Winchester. Can you find the light?"
"Give me a moment," Castiel said. Dean heard him shuffle around the small supply closet, and a few seconds later the room was flooded with dim, yellow light.
Dean blinked up at Castiel as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Not only did he have a slightly familiar voice, but he had a very familiar face. Dean had glimpsed him from across the office before, but he'd never talked to him one on one. Now he wondered why. He was damn hot in his white button-up and over-sized trench coat.
"I believe you're bleeding," Castiel said.
Dean frowned. Bleeding? Oh. Right. His head. He reached up and gently prodded the back of his head. He winced when he found the tender spot. It was warm and wet; he pulled his hand away and his fingertips were stained with blood. "Shit."
Castiel knelt next to Dean. "We have to hold pressure on it."
"I don't have anything to use as a bandage."
And that's when Castiel started to take off his shirt. Dean tried not to stare. The key word being tried. Castiel was nicely built. Not too muscular, but lean with skin that saw the sun often.
"Here," Castiel said, startling Dean out of his mental cataloging. Right. Head wound. Blood.
Dean took the shirt hesitantly. "You sure you want me to use this?" He didn't want to stain the crisp white shirt.
Castiel nodded. "You have to stop the bleeding. And I am the one who caused this. I should have turned the lights on."
"Not your fault. I didn't think to turn on the lights either. I know where the paper is," Dean said. He pressed the shirt to the back of his head. Blood dripped down his neck and onto his shirt collar.
"I should call an ambulance," Castiel said. He went to the door and pulled the handle. And pulled. And pulled. He turned around with a frown. The door was locked.
They sat side by side on the dusty floor, contemplating their life choices. Dean laid back on the bloody shirt between his head and the shelf; Castiel stared up at the copy paper.
It wasn't long before Dean started to shiver. The supply closet was chilly and his thin polo wasn't doing much for him. Castiel noticed right away. He shrugged his trench coat off and laid it over both of them without a word. Dean, however, had a word to say. Several, actually. "Hey. You need this more than I do. I already stole your shirt."
Castiel shook his head. "You've lost blood. You need to stay warm until we're rescued."
Dean snorted. He was so tired that everything was funny. "Rescued? Yeah, I can't wait until our knight in clean-pressed khakis comes to save us."
Castiel chuckled. The trench coat stayed draped over both of them.
Even with the trench coat, Dean was still chilly. The supply room was slowly morphing into the arctic. Dean tried to be a brave little soldier and grit his teeth through it, but Castiel was really freaking observant. And really freaking warm. He scooted closer until his side was plastered against Dean's.
Underneath Dean's polo, his skin was on fire. Every nerve along his side kicked into overdrive and started to tingle. He felt a little lightheaded, but very, very warm. Neither of them said anything; it was too awkward. Dean took up Castiel's favorite pastime of staring at the reams of paper and pretending like nothing odd was happening.
Dean drifted off in the early hours of the morning. He woke up with his head on Castiel's shoulder just as someone started to open the supply closet door. Before he could move away, Bobby walked in.
Bobby's footsteps faltered for only a moment. He blinked at Castiel and Dean, side by side on the floor, only inches apart, with Castiel half naked. Then he stepped over them and grabbed a ream of paper.
"Bobby, I swear this isn't what it looks like," Dean said as he jumped to his feet. He wobbled back and forth like a baby fawn until Castiel stood with him and put a solid hand on his elbow to steady him.
Bobby held up his free hand. "I don't care, and I don't want to know. Take the day off and get the hell out of my office." He kicked the door stopper back in place and walked away.
Dean didn't want to look at Castiel. Not only had he managed to get them both locked in a closet, made him strip down to just his pants, and drooled on his shoulder for god-only-knows how long, now Bobby thought they were involved. Super.
"Would you like me to drive you to the hospital?" Castiel asked.
Wait, come again? Dean looked at Castiel's face, but he saw nothing but a faint smile. "I-I can drive myself."
"That would be unsafe for both you and everyone between here and the hospital."
"You don't have to."
"I would like to," Castiel said. And he did.
The nurse at the hospital thought they were together. So did the doctor. And Sam. In less than a month, they were. At their wedding three years later, everyone laughed at the story of how they'd met, and almost died, in the closet. Dean laughed hardest of all.