Dean was not having the best of days.

It had been a crappy couple of months really, work snowballing until he'd had no time at all to himself, just coming in at a late hour and crawling into bed to sleep. Takeout pizza and enormous latte's just to keep going with his impossible work load. Sandover was running him into the ground and he took it, took it all, for the salary and the corner office.

And now he was sitting in a plastic chair, feeling his belt cut into his stomach as he waited for his appointment at the weight clinic.

Sam had been the one to notice, fucking Sam Wesson and his abs and his weekends of squash and running. Like Dean had time or energy for shit like that. He'd tactfully pointed out that Dean was carrying a little 'holiday weight', and perhaps he'd like to join him for a run on Saturday.

It was freaking July. Holiday weight his ass.

Dean wasn't in the habit of preening, or even really looking at himself as he showered, shoved on his suit and prepped for the morning meeting. But once it had been pointed out he couldn't not see it. The softness to his wrists and arms, the slight fleshiness of his throat and the slight curve to his stomach. Not fat, not epically overweight, but perhaps (fucking never going to live it down) chubby. He hated the word, hated the thought of being described like that, but he was stuck in his rut and he needed some help to get the weight off fast.

Hence, clinical trial.

Dean was after all, in the business of quick, precise solutions. No time for the new stringent diet and workout plan to take effect, he needed to be in shape again. His suit pants were too tight as it was, no way he could live like this another minute, let alone weeks, maybe months.

He drummed his fingers on his thigh, feeling the flesh give to the press of his finger tips. Ugh. He was gross. How had he even let this happen?

"Mr Smith?" The receptionist announces his name, checking Dean out as he walks to the door of the doctor's office. He doesn't notice her look, too busy cataloguing the many nights he failed to eat anything but drive-thru and relaxing, mind numbing, beer.

He was a fucking mess.

It didn't help that when he entered the doctor's office, the Doctor himself, dark haired and thin faced, looked up from his desk and frowned.

"Get out."

Dean stood in the doorway for a second, but then remembered that, feeling crappy or not, no one spoke to him like that and got to escape unscathed.

"Or...no." he glowers, watching the Doctor look up at him again with slightly more confusion and irritation in his eyes. "In fact I'm just going to take a seat..." Dean ambled to the chair in front of the desk. "And when you feel like doing your freaking job, you can just get on with it...I'll be waiting."

The doctor looks at him for another long, assessing moment.

Dean crosses his legs and stares right back.

The doctor sighs.

"Do you know how many women I've had in here looking for fen-phen? Or speed or whatever wonder drug they think I'm keeping to myself?" The doctor sighs again, running a weary hand through his tangled dark hair. "Healthy women, perfectly healthy, point of fact." He glowers across the desk. "I refuse to deal with another obsessed diet victim looking for a quick fix to a problem they don't have – so like I said, please leave."

"Actually you said 'Get Out' and none too politely at that." Dean taps his fingers on the edge of the desk. "And I actually have a problem, so like I said – when you're ready. Doctor."

The guy stares some more, like he thinks that'll make Dean get the hell out and leave him alone.

Ok, so it almost works, but he's frigging desperate here.

"What problem?" The doctor asks eventually, stony and disbelieving.

"Well...it's a weight loss clinic, and your eyes probably work or they'd take your license." Dean's uncomfortable enough thinking about the extra pounds he's carrying, without having to explain to someone else. "I have weight...I want to lose it. Fast."

"I reiterate – get out." The doctor points at him with his pen fiercely.

"Or, you could help me." Dean persists. "Look, I came all the way down town on my one day off all month just to see you – I'm huge ok? Fix it."

The doctor looks at him speculatively.

"Fine. Get on the scale." He gestures towards a large, iron contraption across the room and Dean gets up and reluctantly toes off his shoes to hop onto it. He doesn't even want to look at the number.

The doctor looks at the display and frowns.

"Let me take your blood pressure." He says, not waiting for a response before slapping the cuff around Dean's arm and puffing it up painfully tight.

"Ow." He says pointedly, but apparently Mr. What's-bedside-manner? doesn't either notice or care.

"Ok, take a seat." The doctor says, banishing the blood pressure cuff back to whatever corner he'd spirited it from earlier.

"Mr..." he pauses.

"Smith." Dean supplies.

"Your blood pressure is very high and you're right to think that you are, perhaps, a little overweight."

Dean snorts inelegantly. A little. Compared to what? His other, twenty-five stone patients?

"Do you experience a lot of stress at home, or work?" He says, like he's reading it off a cue card.

"Maybe...but it's busy right now, I'll take a break when it dies down."

"Hmmm." Says the doctor like he's unconvinced.

"Look, Dr..." he looks down at the name plate on the desk. "Wow, that's long."

"It's Russian." He says, dead pan. "Stick to Cas if it's easier for you."

"First or last name?" Dean frowns.

"It's just my name." He says, unhelpfully.

"Anyway, look, I just came for the drugs, ok? I need to get back in shape, fast."

"Doesn't mean you qualify, have you tried running, lean protein, switching up your diet?" he reels off.

"I don't have time. I have meetings, paper work to plough through, conference calls to take, important shit, you know? I don't have time to count calories and...take lunchtime yoga, ok? I need something that will work soon, and without screwing my job up." He clenches his hands together.

"This is important to you isn't it?" Cas says, after a pause. Then, "Have you considered stress relief..." he says gently.

Dean huffs a bitter laugh and realises, weirdly, that he's breathing heavily. He's on the edge of a panic attack, and he hasn't had one since he was thirteen. "Yeah, again with the time thing. I. Don't. Have. Time, to relax...I barely have time to sleep."

"There are various techniques, meditation, excercise, you already mentioned yoga..."

"Yeah, and its bullshit." Dean grimaces. "I get recommendations for this stuff all the time from people I barely know...and none of it works."

The doctor looks at him speculatively, and Dean waits for his next words, fully prepared to leave now that his dignity is well and truly in tatters.

"Have you tried masturbating?" Is not what he expected the doctor to say, especially not as blank faced as he's been the whole time they've been talking.

Dean chokes on his own spit.

Cas watches him with vague concern as Dean hacks up half a lung and thumps himself on the chest.

"...or you could try warm milk." Cas adds, deadpan.

"You can't...just...ask me that." Dean gasps out eventually.

"It's a very helpful tool for combating stress." The doctor slips into his lecturing tone. "Orgasm releases chemicals in the brain that promote relaxation and rest."

"I'll keep that in mind." Dean says numbly. Cas seems to take this answer as positive, because he nods in a 'so you should' kind of way.

"So...that was fun...now do I get the drugs?" Dean looks down at the paperwork under Cas's hands.

"No...but you should come and see me in a week, I might have something for you then." The doctor says, giving him a perfunctory look over that says clearly 'you can go'.

Dean blinks for a second, then leaves the room wondering if Cas has just been messing with him for twenty minutes.

But he makes another appointment.