Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2854178.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Castiel/Dean_Winchester
  Character:
      Castiel, Dean_Winchester, Alfie_(Supernatural), Pamela_Barnes, Sam
      Winchester, Jo_Harvelle, Bela_Talbot, Meg_Masters, Zachariah_
      (Supernatural), Ellen_Harvelle, John_Winchester, Mary_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Jock_Dean, Punk_Castiel, Poverty,
      Prostitution, Gay_Panic, Angst, Potentially_underage, They're_seventeen
      so_YMMV, Bisexual_Dean, Underage_Drinking, Alcohol_Abuse, Recreational
      Drug_Use, Emotional_Hurt/Comfort, casturbation, handjobs, Shower_Sex,
      Biphobia, John_Winchester's_A+_Parenting, Mary_Winchester_is_a_BAMF,
      Suicidal_Ideation, Suicide_Attempt, sort_of, nothing_graphic, Blow_Jobs,
      random_stucky_feels, the_fluffiest_fucking_ending_I've_ever_written,
      Feelings
  Collections:
      AUs_that_are_ok
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-12-26 Completed: 2015-03-14 Chapters: 16/16 Words: 28253
****** Red-Blooded Blues ******
by sysrae
Summary
     Castiel Novak is a poor kid from a bad neighbourhood. Dean Winchester
     is a rich jock who maybe cares a bit more about Cas than he's willing
     to admit. You know how it goes.
***** Chapter 1 *****
It's been a shitty month in the Novak household, but this takes the fucking
cake.
'He took it,' says Cas, staring dumbly at the empty biscuit tin.
'You don't know that,' says Alfie, the effort at loyalty straining his thin
child's voice. 'It could've, um. It could've, could've blown away, like if the
lid was off and the window was open and, like – or, oh! A bird! It could've
been a bird, you know, like maybe a crow got in, or –'
'It wasn't a crow, and it wasn't the wind. He took it.' Cas's hands clench into
fists. 'He fucking – Jesus fucking Christ, Alfie –' and almost, almost, Cas
says something unforgivable, like why did you let him in here in the first
place?, but Alfie's eyes are wide and scared, and he's only eight, and yeah,
their dad's a mooching, absentee deadbeat, but up until forty seconds ago, Cas
still didn't think he was capable of something like this, like taking the
fucking rent money two days before it's due. Shit, Cas probably would've let
him in, too, though unlike Alfie, he at least knows better than to leave their
dad unattended.
But Cas wasn't here, and Alfie was, and now the fucking money's gone, and they
are so unbelievably screwed.
'It's OK,' Cas says. He shuts his eyes, breathes steadily through his nose.
'It's OK, Alfie. Really. I'll take care of it.'
'But you've got school today –'
'Alfie.' Cas makes himself look at his little brother, makes himself smile and
put a hand on his bony shoulder. 'I'll take care of it, I promise. I'll pick up
an extra shift tonight, and some guys at school owe me money, we'll be –' he
gulps, swallowing the panic in his own throat, forcing the fake smile wider, '–
just fine.'
'You're sure?' says Alfie, like he badly wants to believe it, but doesn't
quite.
Cas ruffles his hair and drops a kiss on his brother's forehead. 'I'm sure,' he
says. 'Now go get your bag and meet me out front. Don't wanna miss the bus!'
'OK,' says Alfie, and hurries off, leaving Cas alone with the empty tin and an
even emptier feeling.
 
                                       *
                                        
'Hey, Winchester! You coming out tonight or what?'
'Wouldn't miss it,' Dean says, grinning at Roy as he slams his locker. 'Usual
meet up?'
'Course. You got your ID?'
'This time, yeah.'
They share a laugh, and Dean's about to tell Roy he'll see him later when, of
all people, Castiel Novak swings into his path – into Roy's path, not Dean's –
and smirks them both to a standstill.
'Roy Cross,' he drawls, an arm cocked against the lockers. 'Just the man I
wanted to see.'
'Wish I could say the same,' says Roy. Dean laughs as a reflex, because Roy
being a jerk is par for the course, but Castiel glances sharply at Dean, and
his blue stare is barbed as a fish-hook. Dean blushes hotly for no good reason,
scuffing the floor with his shoe as Roy sighs. 
'What do you want, Novak?'
'You owe me fifty bucks,' says Castiel, and Dean jerks his head up again; this
is news to him. 'I've come to collect.'
'Haven't got it,' says Roy, which Dean knows is a flat-out lie. Roy lifts his
chin and smiles a challenge. 'Try me again on Monday.'
A muscle works in Castiel's jaw. The planes of his face are flat and sharp-
edged, and it's not like Dean really knows the guy, but there's something off
about him now, this bruised sort of look to his eyes and cheeks, and when he
says, in a tight, quiet voice, 'I need it today, Roy,' Dean doesn't think he's
kidding.
'I'll spot you,' he blurts, before he can stop himself.
Whip-fast, Castiel looks at him again, but Roy's the one who speaks, laughing
like he did the time Dean tried to hurdle a park bench drunk and ended up
breaking his wrist: like he's a goofy dumbass who can't be trusted to tie his
own shoes without supervision. 'You'll what?'
'I'll spot you,' Dean says, his neck and ears burning. 'You don't have the cash
to pay him now, but I do, and he needs it, so I'll spot you.'
'You don't –' Castiel starts, but Roy cuts him off, arms folded as he looks at
Dean.
'Now why the fuck would you do a thing like that?' he says, his smile a little
sharper than it was before. 'Fuck this guy, Dean. I'm not paying him shit.'
'I wrote your paper!' Castiel says, outraged. 'We had a fucking agreement, Roy
–'
'Yeah, well, you only got me a 91,' says Roy, 'and I wanted a 95. Deal's off,
Novak. Suck it up and take it like a man.'
Ugly silence blooms between them. Castiel looks furious, and Roy just smiles,
and Dean feels sick, because Roy being jerk is one thing, but this is something
else.
'Roy, c'mon man,' Dean says, wincing at how fake his attempt at cheerfulness
sounds, 'don't be like that.'
'Don't be like what, Winchester? Better than him?' Roy snorts. 'He's poor white
trash, and everyone knows it.' He turns back to Castiel, and the cruelty in his
voice is unmistakable. 'You hear that, Novak? You want money, go tell your
skank mommy to spread her legs and –'
Dean isn't quite sure how it happens, except that it does: he punches Roy hard
in the face, knuckles cracking as blood bursts from his nose, and all three of
them freeze. Castiel's mouth hangs open, and Dean stares at him like something
in that sharp, smudged face can explain why he just turned on his buddy of two
years over an ad mominem attack on Castiel fucking Novak, who wears safety pins
in his ears and ripped thrift shop jeans and only comes to football games to
smoke weed under the bleachers.
'What,' growls Roy, a shocked hand probing his bloody nose, 'the actual fuck,
Winchester?'
'Um,' says Dean, who doesn't have an answer ready, and can't think of one in
the split second it takes Roy to roar and tackle him back against the lockers,
punching a punishing one-two combo straight to his stomach. Dean wheezes like
he's going to throw up, and then Roy shakes him and storms away, kicking the
corner locker before vanishing from sight. Dean blinks up at Castiel and slide-
falls onto his ass, too stunned to do anything except gasp for air and wonder,
in some blank, panicked part of his mind, if that really just happened.
'Shit,' breathes Castiel. He looks at Dean, opens his mouth, shuts it.
Swallows. 'Shit,' he says again, and edges closer, dropping down on his
haunches. 'You, uh. You OK?'
'Fine,' Dean croaks, and forces himself upright before Castiel's outstretched
hand can brush his knee.
Castiel rises slowly, squinting at him, face unreadable. 'You didn't have to do
that.'
Dean holds his ribs and winces. 'No shit, Sherlock!'
'So why did you?'
'What?'
'Why did you?' Castiel says again – intently, blue gaze pinning Dean to the
locker. 'Roy Cross has been an abrasive asshat with anger management issues
since the first day of school, but you pick now to call him on it?'
'So?'
'So?' And suddenly Castiel is up in his face, crowding him back against the
locker, forearms braced on either side of Dean's head. 'What the fuck do you
want from me, Dean? You want me to make it up to you? You want a favour? What?'
Dean goes completely blank. His mouth his dry, and Castiel is so damn close,
their noses are almost touching. His cheeks are flushed, and the collar of his
too-big shirt is skewing sideways, showing a tan expanse of collarbone that
Dean has a sudden, absurd urge to bite, and oh, fuck, fuck –
'Bail off me, man!' He shoves Castiel in the chest, heart thumping wildly.
'Jesus, do I need a fucking reason? I'm sorry I bothered!'
And with that, he turns and walks away, his throat tight with a confusing snarl
of anger, shame and lust. 
***** Chapter 2 *****
 Cas collects a hundred bucks from two other students, and resolutely doesn't
think about the additional fifty he should've had from Roy and almost had from
Dean, because that way lies madness. He doesn't think about bright green eyes
and short, spiked hair a shade too dark to be properly blonde, or the way Dean
looks with his lips half-parted, panting against the lockers, and he especially
doesn't think about Dean Winchester punching Roy Cross in the face, because
there's no possible answer to the why of that question that doesn't lead to
trouble. Dean Winchester, Cas decides, is a goddamn distraction – and not in a
pleasant way, like cat videos on YouTube, but in a dangerous, get-your-heart-
eaten way, like the glowing barbel-lure on a deep sea fish. He's rich and
athletic and so fucking straight you could use him as a spirit level, and
Castiel absolutely will not go there, will not even finish the thought he won't
admit to having, because today of all days, he cannot fucking afford to.
He skips last period, changes into his work clothes, hops the bus and wheedles
an extra shift at the restaurant out of Pam, who knows by now that he never
breaks schedule without a damn good reason, and for five straight hours,
Castiel smiles and laughs and sweats for every cent of every tip. When a
middle-aged woman from a giggling, champagne-tipsy table gropes his ass, Cas
nearly drops the tray he's carrying, forces himself to straighten and wink
instead of swatting her hand away, and nearly cries when her party still only
tips him five percent, because he needs this, they have no idea how much, and
god, god –
'Easy, kiddo.' Pam lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. 'Deep breaths, that's
it. Your time is up.'
Cas sucks in air and looks at the clock. It's just gone eight and he started at
three, and he still doesn't have enough to cover the rent. 'I can work longer,'
he says, trying to keep his voice steady. 'You know I'm good for it, Pam – I
can stay all night.'
'Sorry, Cas.' She slides back in behind the bar. 'I already bumped Max's shift
to give you this much, and he needs the money, too. Besides –' she nods at the
door, where a cross-looking Max is hurrying in, '– he's already here.'
Cas leaves his apron and takes his cash. He gets home at eight thirty, where he
finds Alfie doing his homework at the kitchen table and eating microwaved mac
and cheese.
'Mom went out,' says Alfie, instead of hello.
'Who with?' says Cas, a clench in his gut as he puts his earnings – a lot for a
day, but still too little – into the biscuit tin.
'Jerry, I think.'
'Is he the one with the moustache?'
'No, that's Bill. Jerry has the lisp.'
'Right.'
'He's nice,' says Alfie, after a moment. 'I like him.'
'Oh.'
'Are you going out, too?'
Cas stares at the fridge, not trusting himself to turn around. 'I was thinking
about it, yeah. Is that all right with you?'
'It's OK,' says Alfie. 'I got homework to do.'
'I don't like leaving you on your own.'
'I'll be fine.'
'You're sure?'
'I'm not a baby.'
'I know,' says Cas, and goes to get cleaned up.
He keeps the shower cold and short, then changes into his combat boots, a pair
of black jeans with nothing underneath, a faded Clash tee and a blue-and-black
plaid flannel, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and pinned in place. He puts
on mascara and smudges it dark, until his eyes pop, then loops his cowskull
pendant over his head, the silver charm knocking against his chest. One by one,
he replaces the hoops and pins in his ears with bars and studs, then puts on
his heaviest silver rings – they're cheap, but they emphasise his hands, and if
he spins them around, the lumpen designs are solid enough to core a punch, like
impromptu knuckledusters.
He puts lube and condoms in his back pocket, and hopes he doesn't need them.
And then he grabs his fake ID, takes a long swig of the ratshit bourbon he
keeps in his room for emergencies, gives Alfie a parting hug and starts the
long, slow walk to the bar.
 
                                       *
                                        
Roy doesn't speak to Dean for the rest of the day, but by the time school lets
out, it's pretty damn clear he's been talking to everyone else. As to what he's
been saying, though – that's a different question, and if the poorly-muffled
laughter that chases Dean across the car park is anything to go by, it's not
one he's sure he wants answered. He drives home in a funk, alternately furious
at himself for having intervened, at Roy for being a dick, and at Castiel for
ever having approached them in the first place. Especially at Castiel, because
Dean stuck his fucking neck out for the guy, and what does he get as thanks?
Suspicion and fucking outrage, is what, and if it weren't for the fact that
Dean's traitor brain is now supplying him, in cringeworthy detail, with a
replay of every time either he or Roy or one of their other stupid friends has
given Castiel a reason to think of kindness as a trap, he'd be livid.
Instead, he just feels wrung out and sad, and how is this his life? When the
fuck did he turn into one of those bullying jocks from a B-grade teen comedy
about plucky geeks, and why has he only just noticed? Jesus, it's not like he
gets off on power or anything; bigging himself up to flirt with cheerleaders
and teasing kids like Garth Fitzgerald doesn't count, everyone does that,
except that everyone really only means Roy and the others, and it's not like he
didn't know the guy was a jerk – hell, he's thought it often enough – but he
also thought it was OK, somehow, like there were jerks and jerks, and Roy
wasn't really the second kind because Dean wouldn't be friends with him if he
was, only he is, and now Dean's having a personal fucking crisis on his way
home from school, and why the fuck does he want to put his mouth on Castiel
Novak?
He brakes in the driveway, gripping the wheel long after the engine shuts off.
I'm not gay, is his first thought, followed quickly by, but maybe I'm something
else. Shit, that's a thing, isn't it? Bisexuality? Liking men and women? But
he's nearly eighteen, there's no way he wouldn't have figured it out before
now, embarrassing locker-room boners and getting turned on by both actors in
straight porn doesn't count, that's just –
Shit. That totally counts.
Dean goes inside in a daze, ignores the ongoing argument between Sam and Jo
over who's beating who at MarioKart and locks himself in his room, where he
flops back on the bed and stares at the ceiling for what feels like minutes,
but turns out to be hours.
'You heading out tonight, son?' his dad asks over dinner, and Dean realises
that he has absolutely no idea how to explain that he isn't without either
bringing up Roy or inviting unwanted questions about his uncharacteristic
behaviour, and so he nods and says, 'Yeah, of course. Can I take the Impala?'
'Not a chance in hell,' says his dad, but he smiles like he's happy to have
been asked, and somehow Dean gets through the rest of the meal without
incriminating himself.
Of course, the downside is that he now has to go out, alone, when all he really
wants to do is sit in his room and try to figure this out. He makes a token
effort at getting dressed up – new jeans, a green Henley, the brown bomber
jacket he got for Christmas – and heads out, his mother's injunction todrive
safely ringing in his ears.
So that's what he does: drives slowly, safely, in the opposite direction to
where he knows Roy and the others will be, where the streets are unfamiliar and
the buildings run down, and all at once, he thinks, Fuck it.
Dean pulls over, parks, and heads into the first bar he finds. The bouncer
doesn't even try to card him; just rolls his eyes and grunts. Inside, it's all
pool tables and classic rock, which Dean likes, and when he orders a beer, the
bartender grins and complies.
And it's... well, it's not exactly great, but it's not bad, either; there are
probably far worse places to sit and re-evaluate your life. Not that Dean's
having much luck on that front; he's still hung up on the question of why
Castiel Novak is the one who set him off. They've been in school together since
second grade, and in all that time, they've never once hung out. Castiel was
always a weird kid – he was short and chubby right up until the second year of
middle school, and then puberty did him a fucking solid, melting the awkward
right off him as he shot up into nearly six feet of long, sharp bones and
runner's muscles – and that, right there, is the fucking problem: Dean knows
this stuff, like part of him has been subconsciously watching the guy and
taking notes for the better part of a decade, and how fucking creepy is that?
'You want another one?' the bartender asks, when Dean knocks back the last of
his beer, and even though he's driving, it's turning into that kind of night,
so why the fuck not?
'Sure,' he says, and ends up drinking the second one even faster, the better to
try and cope with the realisation that he spends the better part of each
English class transfixed by Castiel's hands. Goddamit, he thinks, and the flush
in his cheeks is only partly due to the alcohol.
'Bathrooms?' he asks the bartender, who grins and points him towards a darkened
hallway.
The door he wants is the last one on the left, and far enough from the bar that
the music is muffled. The walls are all wood, and the door is, too, and Dean
pushes in without a second thought.
And instantly wishes he hadn't.
There's a big guy getting blown up against the sink, grunting obscenely as he
grips the dark hair of the girl – no, not a girl, not a girl at all – who's
sucking him off, and his eyes are closed but the boy's aren't, and oh, Jesus,
fuck, they're bright blue, bright fucking blue, and they flick to Dean and
widen in a horrified moment of recognition that seems to stretch on forever,
because Dean Winchester just walked in on Castiel Novak blowing a biker in a
seedy bar bathroom, mouth stretched wide and palms braced on his thighs, and
there's no air left in the room at all, and the world is upside down. 
***** Chapter 3 *****
Dean neither flees nor speaks, apparently rooted to the spot, and for six full
seconds, the look on his face is the single worst thing that's ever happened to
Castiel. This is the way the world ends, he thinks madly – and then the biker
groans and pulls out his dick and comes on Cas's face, having agreed to pay an
extra twenty bucks for the privilege, only Cas had managed to forget that fact,
which is bad enough, but then he goes completely off-menu and slaps Cas hard
while still holding his hair, slurring out something that might be bitch and
might be baby, and then he lets go, and Cas's neck wrenches, and all he can do
is kneel there, stunned, while the biker calmly puts himself back in his pants
and rinses the spunk off his slapping-hand, and only then, at the apex of
Castiel's utter humiliation, does the guy pull out his wallet and drop the
promised notes in his lap, a dismal flutter of green.
'Next up?' he leers cheerfully, and Castiel freezes when he realises the
question is directed at Dean, who's still in the fucking doorway, Jesus Christ,
and Dean turns all the colours of sunset as the biker says, 'He's worth the
wait.'
And then he pushes out past Dean and back to the bar, and Cas is still just
kneeling there with come on his face, and that's when it hits him like a truck,
like a goddamn axe to the heart, that there's no other reason for Dean to be
here at all except that he is up next, and he doesn't know whether to laugh or
cry or throw up, because he's still short the money and if it's not Dean, it'll
have to be someone else, so why not cross that one last line? It's not like he
can get any lower than this; or maybe he can, and he just doesn't care any
more.
Standing up is the bravest thing he's ever done.
He's shaking so hard he can barely turn the tap, and the silence as he washes
his face is like broken glass rimed with frost.
'Castiel –' Dean starts, voice strangled, and Cas's body flushes and freezes
and thaws again, and before he can think to stop himself, he barks out, 'Wait
your fucking turn!'
Dean makes a noise like he's been stabbed. 'Jesus,' he whispers. 'No, Cas, no,
I swear, I'm not here for – I wouldn't do that, I wouldn't –'
'Wouldn't what?' he snaps. 'Lower yourself? Wouldn't watch? Or should I fucking
charge you for the show?' He rinses his mouth out, wipes his face and stoops to
pick up his money, wadding the notes in his pocket like crumpled receipts, and
he's too damn angry for tears, but when he straightens up again, he's vibrating
at the frequency of something like rage and a lot like pain, and Dean
Winchester just fuckingstands there, and that's when an even more godawful
possibility occurs to Cas, and all the blood drains from his face.
'You knew I was here,' he says, and it comes out a rasp. 'Oh, fuck, you fucking
– you knew, you're going to tell –' He chokes off the sentence, tries to smile,
tries for some of his trademark, I-don't-give-a-shit cockiness but manages only
a scraped facsimile of it, '– and you know what? I don't fucking care, Dean,
you can't hurt me with this, you can't hurt me more than he did, so blackmail
away, or laugh, or whatever it is you came here to do, because I can't deal
with your petty jock bullshit right now, so just – just fucking say something,
would you?' His voice cracks. 'What do you want?'
And Dean says, very softly, 'Are you OK?'
Castiel stares at him, lost. 'Am I OK?' he echoes. 'Am I OK?'
'He hit you,' says Dean, and there's a shake in his voice that sounds almost
angry. 'When he – he hit you, Cas.'
'Since when do you call me that?' Cas snaps. 'Since when do you call me
anything?'
'Oh, like that's the fucking issue?' Dean shoots back. 'Your name?'
'The issue,' Cas grits out, 'is why you're even here. Did someone put you up to
it? Did you figure it out yourself? Did you think –' he surges forward, grabs
Dean's shirt in his fist, '– that it would be fucking funny?'
'I didn't know!' Dean shouts. He grabs at Cas's shirt in turn, until they're
equal parts pulling back and pulling in, a two-man tug of war. 'I didn't know,
OK? I just came in to piss, and I didn't – Jesus, you were just there, and I
don't know why you're doing this, but I couldn't –'
'You don't know why?' Cas hisses, jerking Dean closer. 'For money, you
entitled, obliviousasshole!'
'But you –'
'So help me god, Dean, if you ask me why don't I get a normal job – you don't
even work, and I work my fucking ass off, but my dad took the money we had for
rent and I needed to make it up fast, so don't you fucking judge me, OK? I do
what I have to!' And he shoves Dean away from him, hard and sharp, and storms
out before he says something he really regrets.
 
                                       *
                                        
Dean's chest burns where Cas's knuckles grazed him through his shirt. He stands
there, feeling his heart in his ears, and counts ten beats before he comes to
his senses and chases after him, reaching the bar in time to glimpse a plaid
shirt vanishing through the front door. He dashes past the pool tables, barely
avoids crashing into the bouncer, and then he's outside, and Castiel is
stalking off up the street with his shoulders hunched, and Dean bolts after
him, huffing in the chill air as he overtakes Cas and skids to a halt in front
of him.
'How much?' he blurts, because his brain and mouth are apparently disconnected,
and Castiel goes rigid.
'You really want to buy me, Dean?' he says, voice low and dangerous.
Dean winces. 'That's not – shit, that came out wrong. I mean, how much do you
still need? For the rent,' he adds, when Castiel looks blank.
Quietly, Cas says, 'Four hundred and fifty dollars.'
'And you were –' Dean stumbles over the question, '– I mean, if I hadn't, uh,
if you were still – could you have, um –'
'No,' says Cas. 'Not tonight, anyway. Not in there.' He hugs himself, looks
intently down at the sidewalk. 'If they wanted to fuck me, maybe. But there's
better places for that.'
'Have you ever –?'
Cas's head snaps up, and for an instant, he looks so hurt and furious, he's
almost inhuman. But then he slumps a little, and says, hoarsely, 'Twice.'
Dean's stomach twists. He knows he shouldn't ask, but part of him can't not.
'Does it hurt?'
A ghost of a smile moves Castiel's lips. 'You mean, does it hurt to get fucked
in general, or just when someone's paying?'
'When someone's paying,' Dean says – and then, blushing hotly, 'or both, I
guess.'
'Why? You curious, Dean?'
It's teasing, like he expects a denial, and Dean surprises both of them by
admitting, 'A little.'
'Oh.' Cas blinks. 'It depends, I guess.'
'On what?'
The smile goes from ghost to zombie. 'On whether they want you to hurt.'
'Oh,' says Dean, and Castiel sighs, like he always knew the conversation was
going to circle back to this point, and tightens his grip on his ribs.
'Look, Dean – I don't mean to be rude, but this is hard enough without you
pitying me. If you've got some magical rich boy method of earning four hundred
and fifty bucks in a day that doesn't involve sex work, I'm all ears, but
otherwise –'
'I can give it to you.'
Castiel stills. 'I'm sorry?'
'I can give you the money. Right now, we can go to an ATM, I can use my card –'
'You're serious.' The look on Cas's face is almost physically painful. 'You –
why –?'
'Because I want to. Because I can.' He takes a shuddering breath and forces
himself to look Cas in the eye. 'Because you're better than anyone who'd buy
you.'
Almost imperceptibly, Castiel starts to shake. 'I can't pay you back,' he says,
and his voice is so fucking raw, it makes Dean ache. 'I can try, I swear I'll
try, but I can't – it's too much to owe, I'd have to go back, I'd have to – and
if I'm going to do that, I might as well just cut out the middleman, you know?'
'I know,' Dean says, and it comes out a whisper. 'Please, Cas?'
'Jesus.' Castiel almost laughs. 'I – yes, OK? Jesus, I don't have a fucking
choice. Beggars can't and wishes and horses, all that fuckery. Yes. Please.
Thank you. Shit.' He laughs again, and it crinkles his eyes and nose and mouth,
and out of nowhere, Dean remembers the time Cas set off firecrackers during
football practice; how he laughed his fucking ass off at the guys who freaked;
how he kept on smoking a joint when he ran away, taking thin drags and
sprinting between gales of laughter; how he'd still been faster than everyone
who chased him, even though they were varsity and he wasn't.
How fucking beautiful he looked.
'Good,' Dean breathes, and something in him breaks, and something in him hopes.
'Let's do that, then.'
***** Chapter 4 *****
Castiel stares at the notes in his hand, and tries very hard not to cry. The
whole way to the ATM, a part of him was waiting for the other shoe to drop; for
Dean to change his mind or laugh, for the prank to be revealed. But all Dean
does is hand him the cash – exactly four hundred and fifty dollars, counting
each note into Castiel's palm like he wants to make sure Cas knows how much
he's getting – and stand back, blushing faintly in the sodium glow of the
streetlights.
'You can, uh. Take your time,' Dean says. 'With the, with the paying. But if
you can't, that's OK, too.'
'Thank you,' Cas says again, and it comes out a whisper. Hands shaking, he puts
the cash away in his wallet, feeling how much thicker it is with money inside.
He wants to say something else, but all he can do is stare at Dean, and Dean
stares back, the two of them equally lost for words – and then, because he's
exactly that sad, Cas almost leans in to kiss him. His head moves of its own
accord, and then he jerks back a half-second later, face burning, because Jesus
fucking Christ, he just had some other guy's dick in his mouth, and even if
Dean was into guys, Cas is hardly an appealing prospect.
'I, uh,' he flounders, trying to cover the silence. 'I should, I should – go.
Home.'
Dean blinks. 'Oh. You got a ride?'
'No. I walked here.'
'You –' Dean ducks his head, staring at the concrete. 'You want a lift? I mean,
for safety,' he adds in a rush, at Cas's shocked inhale, 'I mean, you're
carrying cash, it's late, if you got jumped or something –'
'Shit,' says Cas, because knowing his life, that's exactly the sort of thing
that would end up happening to him, 'yeah, that would be – thanks. Again.'
Dean laughs, a breathless sound. 'Don't mention it.'
They walk to the car in silence, and once the door unlocks, Cas slides into the
passenger seat alongside Dean. He feels lightheaded, and even though it's
warmer in the car than on the street, his hands are shaking so badly that he
can't get his seatbelt to buckle. He swears and tries again, the metal tab
tapping scratchily on black plastic, but it just won't click, and suddenly it
hits him that he's safe, he's safe, he doesn't have to let anyone fuck him for
money, and a sob wrenches out of his throat before he can stop it.
'Shit,' he gasps, palms braced on the dashboard as he starts to cry, 'I'm
sorry, I'm so sorry –'
'It's OK,' says Dean, sounding mildly alarmed – and then, more gently, 'It's
OK, Cas.'
'It's not,' Cas gulps. He shuts his eyes, hating how pathetic he must look –
how pathetic he is – and struggles to get himself under control. He wipes his
eyes with the back of his wrist, sucking in breath, heart rabbiting in his
chest. 'God, this is not OK, because I am not OK, OK?' He lifts his head and
looks at him. 'Jesus, Dean, you just gave me four hundred and fifty fucking
dollars. Who even does something like that?'
Dean opens his mouth, but doesn't answer. His half-parted lips are an
invitation, and Castiel has to look away to stop himself from taking it,
because it was one thing to have private fantasies about Dean Winchester when
he was a distant, untouchable asshat, but it's quite another when Cas is
breaking down in his car after being thoroughly white knighted. God, it's like
he's in a rent boy version of Pretty Woman right now, and why is Dean being so
nice to him? Uncomplicated kindness doesn't happen in Castiel Novak's life; in
fact, he'd go so far as to call it a fucking tenet that good things aren't free
or simple, and maybe that's why he starts talking again, the words coming out
in a nervous torrent.
'Look, I just need – I just need you to understand something here, OK?' He
grips the edge of the seat, the leather biting into his fingers. 'I'm not a
whore, I'm not always – god, it's not what I am, but I have to, sometimes – I
wish I didn't, Jesus, I wish I'd never – but last winter Alfie was sick and
there were bills, and I just – this isn't me being ungrateful, but you need to
know I might – if it gets bad again, if something happens, I'd have to –'
'You'd do it again,' says Dean, softly.
Cas jerks his head up and looks at him, at eyes that have no business being so
stupidly green, and makes himself say it, the admission sharp on his tongue.
'You haven't rescued me, all right? Not forever; not if something goes wrong
again, and it always fucking does.' His voice breaks on the words, but he
ploughs on regardless. 'So if this is, I don't know, some sort of feel-good
saviour trip for you – if you're doing this so I'll stop, so you can go home
and feel like you saved me or some shit – I need you to know, I need to be
straight with you now, because I can't –'
And that's when Dean leans in and kisses him.
 
                                       *
                                        
It's just a press of lips, his fingers ghosting the skin of Cas's cheek, but
fire shoots through Dean like it's more than that. He doesn't want to stop, but
Cas goes tense and still, not moving to reciprocate, and Dean wrenches back,
horrified at himself, because holy shit, he really shouldn't have done that. He
gulps, running a hand through his hair, and Castiel just stares at him, wide-
eyed and shocky, like he's never seen him before.
'What,' Cas breathes, 'was that?'
Dean winces. 'A kiss?'
'A kiss.'
'Yeah.'
'You kissed me.'
'Yeah?'
'But you're straight!' says Cas, and three little words shouldn't feel so much
like being punched, but they do. The hurt must show on his face, and now it's
Castiel's turn to wince, his tone gone hesitant as he asks, 'Well, aren't you?'
'I thought I was,' says Dean, gulping. 'But I guess, uh... bisexual?' He's
never said it aloud before, and he hates that his own uncertainty makes it
sound like a question; hates that part of him is braced for Cas to laugh and
say that isn't really a thing, you're either one way or the other,which is word
for word what his dad once yelled at the TV during an episode of House.
But Castiel doesn't laugh. Instead, he says, 'Oh,' his voice oddly small, and
hunches in on himself. 'So, you... you do want me, then? Like that?'
'Yes,' says Dean, reflexive in his honesty, and then goes cold all over as he
realises what Cas is really asking. 'Wait, no – fuck! No, not like that, I
didn't mean, I wouldn't – shit. Shit!'
Awkward silence blooms between them. Dean's stomach twists. He wants Castiel so
badly, but there's four hundred and fifty dollars that says he has no right to
push the issue; not unless he wants to feel like a client. Forcing himself to
look away, he turns the key in the ignition and stares ahead at the road.
'You live on Walker, right?'
He hears Cas startle at the change in topic, glances over just in time to see
him nod. He still looks spooked, and Dean doesn't blame him. 'Yeah,' he says,
thickly. 'Near the intersection with Regan.'
'Right,' says Dean, and starts to drive.
It's excruciating. Neither of them speaks again, the tension thick as smoke.
Dean discards a dozen different apologies, a dozen variations on I wasn't
trying to buy you, but can't think of a single one that Castiel might believe.
When they finally pull to a halt, his mouth is dry with guilt.
The silence stretches out like elastic, then snaps.
'Thanks for the lift,' says Cas. He doesn't meet Dean's gaze, his long, thin
fingers toying with the seatbelt he never fastened. One beat; two. 'I can give
it back, if you want.'
'What?'
'The money. You can have it back. Or I can suck you off.' He looks at Dean, his
expression unreadable. 'I'd make it good –'
'Get out,' Dean growls. He's suddenly furious again – at Cas, at Roy, at
everything. His knuckles whiten around the steering wheel. 'Just keep the money
and get the fuck out of my car.'
Cas doesn't need to be told twice; he moves so fast he stumbles, almost falling
into the street as he slams the door shut behind him. Numb, Dean watches him
jog across the street to a ramshackle house, and pointedly doesn't think about
Castiel Novak down on his knees, his mouth stretched wide around Dean's cock –
He drives away in a screech of tires.
Fuck my life, he thinks. Fuck everything.
 
***** Chapter 5 *****
The house is silent when Cas gets in, his mother's bedroom open and empty. He
heads to the kitchen on autopilot, empties the contents of his wallet into the
biscuit tin, then goes to check on Alfie. His little brother is fast asleep,
and Cas spends almost two full minutes watching him from the doorway, his thin
body bunched under Superman sheets they bought at the thrift store. His room is
strewn with robot toys and library books, a herd of My Little Ponies gathered
on the pink and yellow desk Cas found on the curb and fixed for him. There's an
innocence to it that cracks his heart, and he lurches back down the hallway,
viciously shedding his clothes as a proxy for the skin he wants to rip from his
body, but can't. Half-naked, he stumbles into his room, tears off his boots and
rings and jeans, and grabs his bottle of ratshit bourbon, coughing against a
sob as he necks the contents.
The look on Dean's face.
He wants to burn the whole fucking night right out of him, that stupid kiss as
well as the taste of cock and come, and somehow he makes it into the bathroom,
turning the shower on just in time to cover the wrenching sound that strangles
past his lips. Not that anyone's awake to hear him anyway; not that it fucking
matters. Shaking, he turns the hot on full and slides down the tiles, knees up
as he sits beneath the spray. The bourbon tastes like antiseptic and bad
decisions, which it is, and he drinks the lot like it's absolution, or
punishment, or both. The water goes cold overhead, and he fumbles the taps off
on the fifth try, but he's drunk as fuck and the tiles are slippy, and when he
tries to stand, he falls straight back down again, crashing sideways half in,
half out of the shower.
He blacks out, only waking to shiver and pull a towel over himself.
The next thing he knows, Alfie's standing over him, frantically shouting his
name as he shakes Cas's shoulders. Castiel blinks at him, bleary and stiff and
cold as hell, and swats feebly at his hands.
'Cas,' Alfie croaks, and shit, the kid's crying, fat tears rolling down his
cheeks. 'You stupid, you fucking –'
'Language,' Cas slurs, and Alfie makes a noise that might be laughter. Shakily,
Cas goes to sit up, which is a tactical error, given the state he's in.
Groaning with the sudden, savage onset of nausea, he lunges over and somehow
makes it to the toilet, throwing up everything in his stomach and then some.
Dry heaves spasm through his back, and Alfie just stands there and pats him
through it, which is fucked up enough that Cas weeps a little himself.
When it's finally over, he struggles up to the sink and brushes his teeth with
three times the usual amount of toothpaste, wincing at the sight of himself in
the mirror. There's a purpling bruise on his cheek where the last client
slapped him, dark circles under both his eyes, and a blue-grey pallor to his
face that makes him look like a corpse. He feels like he's got the flu – and
maybe he does, in addition to being hungover; he's the dumbass who slept wet
and naked on the bathroom floor – and there's an ugly, tender swelling on his
ribs where he landed on the raised edge of the shower stall, two thin blood-
crusted cuts standing out against a bruise that's almost as dark as the one on
his face. It pulls when he moves, and Cas bites back a whimper as he bends
down, grabs the discarded towel and wraps it around his hips.
'You got drunk again,' Alfie accuses. He gives an angry hiccup, wiping his eyes
on his sleeve, and glares at Cas with all the wrath an eight-year-old can
muster.
Cas winces. 'Yeah, I did. I'm sorry.' He crouches down to Alfie's height,
hissing in pain, and adds, 'But I got the money we need.'
Alfie's eyes go wide. 'All of it?'
'All of it.' He puts a hand on his brother's shoulder, as much to steady
himself as to offer reassurance. 'And I'm going to take it to Mr Adler before
school, just to be safe.'
'Then you'd better hurry,' Alfie says, reverting to his usual practicality.
'You're already running late.' And he flashes his plastic Pokemon watch to
prove it.
'Fuck,' says Cas, and hobbles off to get dressed. Pulling on his jeans and
boots especially is torture: there's no way to do it that doesn't feel like
he's being stabbed. Still, he manages, and in a minor miracle, he gets himself,
his bag and the rent money out the door inside of fifteen minutes. Alfie is
already waiting, standing impatiently on the stoop as Castiel shoves his key in
their sticky lock, his shaking fingers making a tricky process even trickier.
'Mom didn't come home last night,' says Alfie, into the silence.
The lock clicks shut, and Castiel rests his head on the door. 'I know. I saw
her room.'
'You think she's OK?'
'It's mom. She'll be fine.'
'You're not fine, though,' Alfie says, and Castiel grips the key so hard, the
teeth cut into his palm.
'I will be,' he grits out, trying to mean it. He steps back from the door and
meets his brother's gaze. 'I had a rough night –' which is putting it fucking
mildly '– but I'll live. Promise.'
'You better,' says Alfie, and storms off towards the bus stop.
 
                                       *
                                        
Dean doesn't care about Castiel Novak.
Nope.
Not even a little.
He didn't lie awake for hours last night, thinking about all the different,
better things that could've happened between them, stroking himself and coming
so hard he fell asleep the second he'd wiped himself clean. He sure as hell
didn't dream about Cas, either, didn't wake up with his name on his lips,
didn't touch the bruises Roy left and think how they'd been worth it. He
doesn't crane his head in the hallways, looking for the telltale flash of black
hair, blue eyes and safety pin earrings, and he's definitely not counting down
the hours until English, where he knows for sure Cas is meant to be, because
Dean doesn't care, OK?
And besides which, he's got his own problems.
'You really punched Roy?' says Bela, gleefully scandalised. 'Over Castiel
Novak's honour?'
'His mother's, technically,' Dean mumbles. He stares at his lunch tray, idly
poking his uneaten food with a fork. Until Bela came and joined him, he'd been
sitting alone, which was something of a first for him; Roy and the others are
over at their usual table, but Dean couldn't stomach the thought of joining
them, and even if he'd wanted to, he wouldn't have been welcome.
'Dean, Dean.' Bela sighs and stretches. She's always reminded him of his aunt's
Abyssinian cat: tawny, haughty, lithe, and liable to bite when rubbed the wrong
way, but still just a bit magnetic. 'You're not even going to try and make it
up to him, are you?'
Almost, Dean thinks she means Cas, and has to bite back a deeply inappropriate
answer. 'Why should I?' he says instead. 'Roy's the jerk in all this.'
'Roy's always been a jerk,' says Bela, bitterly. The remark is uncannily close
to what Cas said yesterday. 'What makes this so different?'
'I dunno,' says Dean. He keeps his eyes on the table, because he does know, and
is starting to wish he didn't. 'I just – god, I'm just fucking sick of
everything, you know? I'm sick of acting like a fucking douchebag just because
I can get away with it, I'm sick of laughing at Roy's stupid jokes, I'm sick of
pretending –' He snaps his mouth shut, jaw clenching as he stares across the
room to his usual table. As though he can sense the scrutiny, Roy looks up and
meets his gaze, sneers, sniggers, flips him off, and goes right back to eating
his burger. 'I'm just sick of it,' Dean says, quietly.
'Welcome to the human race, then,' says Bela, not unkindly. 'It sucks, but
you'll get used to it.'
And before Dean can even parse that remark, she gets up and saunters away
across the cafeteria, waving a hand behind her in blind farewell.
'Yeah,' Dean echoes, hollowly. 'Used to it.'
 
***** Chapter 6 *****
The Novak family landlord, Zachariah Adler, lives in a two-storey house the
next street over. He answers Cas's knock wearing nothing but striped pyjama
bottoms, a stained wifebeater singlet and his customary leer. The guy is a
serious creep, and now as always, he looks at Cas like prey.
'What do you want, Castiel?' he says, extending the first syllable with an oily
hiss. 'The rent's not due 'till tomorrow.'
'Paying early,' says Cas, and thrusts the money at him.
Adler laughs, and it's not a kind sound. 'You've never paid early before.'
'Yeah, well. First time for everything.'
'Sure there is,' says Adler. He takes the proffered notes and makes a show of
counting them, huffing surprise at the total. 'Wonders will never cease! You
must've worked hard to earn all this.'
'Yeah,' says Cas, swallowing. 'I did.'
Smirking, Adler leans in, and the glint in his eye makes Cas's skin crawl. 'I
bet you were worth every penny,' he murmurs. 'But come to me first, the next
time you're short. I'm sure we can work something out.' And he squeezes Cas's
hand, his thick thumb dragging slowly across his knuckles.
Castiel jerks away, appalled, and Adler laughs again. 'Oh, don't look so
shocked,' he says, leaning against the doorway. 'You think I don't keep tabs on
my tenants? You haven't exactly been subtle.'
The world is spinning. This can't be real. 'How –' Cas starts, then forces
himself to ask a different question. 'How did you know we were short?'
Adler snorts. 'How do you think? Your dad came by, said he'd borrowed your
money, but wanted me to know he'd have it back to you soon, that I shouldn't
assume you weren't good for it. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know about your, ah,
alternate revenue stream –' he chuckles, and Castiel wants to die, '– but then,
who am I to say?'
Cas has no answer to that. Shaking, he takes a step back, and then another, and
then another, retreating down the landlord's front path.
'Good talk!' Adler calls, when he reaches the street. 'I'll see you in a month,
hm?'
Castiel turns and bolts.
Running is agony, but he forces himself to clear the street before staggering
to a halt. He braces his hands on his knees, gasping at the acid burn in his
ribs, throat, stomach. Weirdly, the pain anchors him, gives him something solid
to focus on besides the unholy trinity of revelations that, firstly, Adler
propositioned him in exchange for rent because, two, Adler knows he's been
selling himself, which is almost as disturbing as the fact that, three,
Castiel's fucking father fucking told Adler he took their money.
He starts walking, which hurts, but he needs that right now; so much so that he
goes straight past the bus stop, heading to school on foot. He'll be late as
fuck, but he doesn't care. It doesn't matter.
He's not sure anything does, any more.
By the time he makes it to campus, his grade is at lunch, which is the only
fucking mercy in a morning devoid of same, because it gives him quick access to
Meg. He finds her beneath the bleachers, slumped in a rickety folding chair
with her boots propped up on a milk crate, smoking a skinny joint. Her bottle-
blonde hair is black at the roots where she's still growing out a bad dye job,
and her heart-shaped face is tipped back in pleasure.
'Hey, Meg,' he says, and his voice is so ragged, he barely recognises it.
'Hey yourse- Clarence?' says Meg, coming bolt upright. Her eyes go wide at the
sight of him. 'Jesus, man, you look like shit.'
'I feel like shit,' says Cas. I am shit, he almost adds, but doesn't, because
it's a level of pathos too far, and he didn't come here to confess. Castiel's
relationship with Meg can best be described as enemies with benefits: they kind
of hate each other, but they have bigger hates in common, which means they
sometimes hang out and get sarcastically stoned together.
'Weed?' Meg asks, proffering her joint.
'Bless you,' Cas says. 'Honour on your cow.' He moans as he inhales, still
drunk enough that after three deep drags, he feels pleasantly crossfaded, and
for the first time since Alfie woke him up, the pain in his ribs recedes.
He passes the joint back, leaning against a pillar. Meg takes another drag,
holds it, blows a smoke ring.
'Wanna talk about it?' she asks.
'I really don't.'
'OK. Should I be worried?'
'About what?'
She gives him a Look. 'About the state of the union. What do you think,
numbnuts? Worried about you.'
Castiel makes a dismissive noise. 'Sure. Whatever. Knock yourself out.'
'Ass,' Meg mutters, but there's no sting in it, and she hands Cas the joint to
finish.
They share a companionable silence, broken a moment later when the bell rings.
Both of them wince at the harsh sound.
'Ugh,' says Meg. 'I fucking hate this place. What've you got now?'
'English, I think,' says Cas. 'But I gotta get to my locker first. You?'
'Chemistry,' says Meg. 'Like I give a shit.'
'You're not going?'
'Hell no.' She tilts her head. 'You?'
'Yeah,' says Cas, surprising them both. He sighs, running a hand through his
unbrushed hair. 'I need the normal, I think. Something like that.'
Meg rolls her eyes. 'Nothing about this place is normal, Clarence.'
'I know,' he says. 'Still, though.'
'Yeah, yeah.' She waves a hand. 'Run along, then. I'll catch you later.'
'You, too,' he says, and stumbles off to class.
                                        
                                       *
 
Dean is early to English, snagging a seat behind the one he knows Cas usually
takes. He tenses as the class files in, not wanting anyone else to take Cas's
spot, but nobody does – not even Cas himself. As the door swings shut behind Ms
Harvelle, Dean feels a pang go through him. He doesn't want to be worried about
Castiel Novak, not after the shit he pulled last night (which was your own damn
fault,a part of him whispers, you kissed him first, you made him feel like he
owed you sex), but he is, he is.
Before him, Ms Harvelle frowns at the whiteboard. It's covered in writing from
a previous class, and she can't find the duster to clean it off. Her gaze flits
over the classroom before lighting on the supply cupboard. Crossing her arms,
she makes an angry tsking sound.
'Typical Blake,' she mutters, and as Dean follows her gaze, he realises the
duster is on top of the cupboard, well out of her reach – unsurprising, if Mr
Blake left it there, as he's an impressive 6'5, which makes him a whole foot
taller than Ms Harvelle.
She looks at the class, clearly trying to decide who's both lofty and biddable
enough to get the duster down with minimum fuss, and that's when the door bangs
open, admitting none other than Castiel Novak. Everyone turns to stare, and
there's a collective intake of breath at the sight of him, punctuated by a
burst of scandalised giggling.
'Mr Novak,' says Ms Harvelle, unable to keep the shock from her voice. 'Are you
all right?'
'Peachy,' says Cas, smiling dreamily at her, and it's a goddamn lie, because he
looks like hell. His eyes are yellowed and bloodshot, accentuated by dark
circles; his cheek is bruised almost as black as his hair, which is even
messier than usual, and despite the cold weather, he's only wearing an ill-
fitting tee and jeans, the former sweat-stained and the latter ripped to the
point of being threadbare.
'Well,' says Ms Harvelle, and she takes a deep, assessing breath. 'I'll let
your tardiness slide if you get that duster down for me.'
'Duster?' says Cas.
Ms Harvelle points. Cas blinks slowly.
'Oh,' he says. 'Right. Sure.'
He stretches to reach the top of the cupboard, and as he moves, his shirt rides
up, revealing ribs that are bruised and swollen, dark flesh striped with angry
cuts and crusted with dried blood. The injured area is almost as big as a
football, visible to everyone.
Cas's long fingers close on the duster. He winces sharply, unaware of his
audience, and hands the item to Ms Harvelle.
'Here,' he says. When she doesn't dismiss him right away, he looks puzzled.
'What? What is it?'
'Are you sure you're all right, Mr Novak?' Ms Harvelle asks. 'You look like you
might need to see the nurse.' And she nods pointedly at his side.
A dark flush creeps up Cas's neck, and for the first time since entering the
room, he glances at the class, most of whom aren't bothering to try and hide
their reactions. Finally, he fixes on Dean, but for all that Cas is staring,
it's a vacant intelligence; he looks utterly checked out.
Dean feels sick to his stomach. Jesus, it's all my fault. I shouldn't have left
him alone last night.
'Yeah,' says Cas, after a moment. He looks away from Dean. 'Yeah, maybe I do.'
'I'll write you a note,' says Ms Harvelle, sounding faintly relieved. 'You want
someone to walk with you?'
Before Dean can stop himself, he says, 'I'll take him.'
Unsubtle murmuring ensues – what does Dean Winchester want with Castiel Novak?
– but for once, he doesn't care. Fuck Roy and the others and their petty
freezeouts; Cas looks like he's on the brink of total collapse.
Ms Harvelle seems to have drawn the same conclusion. 'That might be for the
best,' she says. 'Thank you, Dean.'
He doesn't reply; just gets up and comes to hover by Cas's side. Up close, Cas
is sweaty and trembling; he reeks of pot and alcohol, and Dean's estimation of
Ms Harvelle goes up a notch, because even though she must be able to smell it,
too, she doesn't say a word.
'Here,' she says, handing Dean the note. 'Look after him.'
'Sure,' says Dean. 'C'mon, Cas.'
He's expecting protest, but assuming there was any fight in Castiel to begin
with, there isn't now. He slumps, whispers a ragged, 'OK,' and lets himself be
ushered quietly out of the classroom, oblivious to the twenty-odd pairs of eyes
widening at the press of Dean's hand on his back.
***** Chapter 7 *****
'Don't take me to the nurse,' Cas says, the second they're out in the hallway.
The weed is hitting like a hammer now; he's struggling to keep upright, his
voice slurring awkwardly. 'Jus' out.'
'Your ribs –' Dean starts, but Cas cuts him off.
'Doesn't matter. 'm stoned, drunk. She'll know. Write it up. Don't want that.'
He sways, and Dean makes a worried noise, slipping an arm around his shoulders.
Cas leans into him, grateful for the support. He's meant to be mad at Dean, he
thinks, or embarrassed, or something, but just at that moment, he can't recall
why.
'Fine,' says Dean. 'No nurse. But you need help, Cas. Is there anyone I can
call who can come pick you up, like your mom or something?'
Cas flaps his hand, makes a pfft sound. 'Like she cares. Haven't seen her in...
what day is it?'
'Friday.'
'Friday,' Cas echoes. 'Huh. Think I saw her Wednesday, maybe? Tuesday? I
dunno.' He shuts his eyes, stumbles, takes a deep breath and forces them back
open. 'Landlord wants to fuck me,' he says, blankly. 'Could call him. Let him.
Maybe he'd give us next month free.'
'Jesus, Cas.' Dean pulls him closer, warm fingers curling around his uninjured
side. 'You don't... god, don't even say shit like that, OK?'
He lets his head loll down. 'Why not? 's all I'm good for.'
'No, it's not. It's really, really not.'
Cas snorts. 'Like you'd even know.'
Dean goes briefly silent, then says, 'There's no one I can call?
'No one,' Cas confirms, and it's such a bleak realisation, it stops him dead.
He sags against Dean, dimly aware that he's not in his right mind, that he's
drunk and stoned and fucked up in a bunch of new and exciting ways after
everything that's happened, but unable to translate the realisation into a
brain-to-mouth filter. 'I don't have anyone,' he says, voice cracking. 'Just
Alfie. But he's eight, you know, it's not like I havehim. More like he has me.
Stuck with me. He deserves better, though. 'm just... trash.'
Dean makes a pained noise. 'You're not trash, Cas.'
'Says you,' Cas mumbles. He tries to pull ahead, but gets his feet tangled
again, forcing him to throw an arm around Dean's waist for balance. Dean
inhales sharply, but doesn't let go, and as they turn the corner, Cas is
vaguely aware that they're heading towards the parking lot. 'We driving?'
'Yeah,' says Dean. 'I'm going to take you home. Is that OK?'
Cas thinks of his tiny, ugly room and the bourbon bottle he left in the shower.
He thinks of cold floors, cracking shelves and an empty biscuit tin.
'No,' he says. A shudder runs through him. 'Not home. Please. I can't. Just
can't.'
'All right,' says Dean. 'Not home, then. Somewhere else. You got any
preferences?'
Cas shakes his head. 'Just wanna lie down. Sleep. Be warm. Safe.'
They pass through a pair of double doors and out into the sunlight. He flinches
away from it, hiding his face in Dean's shoulder. His body feels like liquid
lead. Meg doesn't smoke hydro, but either today's joint was stronger than usual
or he was just too fucked to handle it, because this isn't a crossfade any
more; he's greening out on an empty stomach, and god, he's so fucking tired, he
just wants to lie down forever.
Time skips like a scratched CD, and suddenly he's being levered into Dean's
car, his body slumping gratefully into the passenger seat.
'Cas? You in there? Shit, man, you're scaring me. Say something.'
Castiel makes a supreme effort, lifting his head and blinking his eyes wide
open. Dean is in the driver's seat, looking worried and beautiful. Frowning,
Cas leans over and cups his cheek, then drops his heavy hand.
'I'm here,' he says, forcing himself to enunciate. 'Just greening out. I'll be
all right.'
If anything, this worries Dean more. 'Maybe I should take you to the hospital,
just to be –'
'No!' Cas grabs his leg, sits bolt upright, head swimming with the effort. 'God
no please don't, no hospital, we can't afford it, not again, we don't have
insurance –'
'OK, OK!' Dean prises his hand up, squeezes the fingers gently. 'I get it, Cas.
No hospital. But if you're really sick, I can't just leave you alone. You
understand?'
'Don't,' says Cas. He slumps back in the seat, eyes slipping closed.
'You don't understand, or –? Hey! Cas! Focus!'
Everything is fuzzy, numb. The words come slowly, as though he's pulling them
up by the roots. 'I understand. I'm fine. But if I'm not, don't save me, OK?
Cheaper to let me go.' He leans his head on the window. 'Put me in a ditch, or
something. Won't surprise anyone.'
He passes out before Dean can reply.
 
                                       *
                                        
I should be panicking, Dean thinks, pulling out into the road. He doesn't know
if Castiel is asleep or unconscious or what, but he's breathing deeply, and
though his pulse is faster than normal, it's not racing, either. He's been to
enough wild parties to know what ugly drunk/stoned looks like, and this isn't
it; but then again, he's got no idea how Cas hurt his ribs or what else he's
taken that might be a factor, and shit, he's not a diagnostician, he doesn't
reallyknow. Part of him thinks, Better safe than sorry. Go to the hospital, get
it checked out. It's what a responsible person would do. But medical bills are
what made Cas start selling himself in the first place, and if Dean lands him
in yet more debt, then how is he making things better?
Cheaper to let me go,Cas said, like he's not even worth the effort. God, it
makes Dean want to break something, that Cas could feel like that, but he can't
just override his wishes, either. Even if he had enough money to pay for a
hospital visit, he can't hide the fact that Cas is a drunk, stoned minor
covered in fresh bruises, and what if they figured out that he's been tricking,
too? All his life, Dean's been taught to believe that the cops will help if
he's in trouble, to go to the doctor if he's sick, that his parents will always
put him first, but none of that's true for Castiel – not now, and maybe not
ever. If Dean takes Cas to the hospital, then the absolute best case scenario
is that Cas gets billed for a service he wasn't sick enough to need in the
first place, and has to spend the next few weeks or months of his life fucking
strangers in bathrooms to repay the cost of Dean's kindness. What's so
responsible about that?
Idling at a long red light, Dean looks at Cas again. He's drooling a little,
loose-limbed and slack in the passenger seat, and after a moment, Dean checks
his pulse, sighing with relief to find it strong and regular. The clock on the
dash reads 13:00, and Dean does some quick mental arithmetic. His dad works
late on Friday nights, while his mom leaves early, driving straight from the
library to take Sammy and Jo to tennis lessons. Speaking of which, Dean's meant
to have practice this afternoon, too, but he still hasn't spoken to Roy and the
others, and even if he had, fuck football – it used to be fun, but he hates
what the team is turning him into, and with or without Cas's influence and the
whole bisexual thing, it hasn't felt right for a while. He'll quit on Monday,
apologise or whatever, but right now, the most important thing is that he's got
at least five free hours and a sick – classmate? crush? friend? – whatever the
hell Cas is to him – person, anyway – to look after, and an empty house to do
it in.
'God, if you die on me, I'm going to be so pissed,' he mutters, absurdly glad
that Cas can't hear the shake in his voice.
And before he can change his mind, he drives them both home.  
***** Chapter 8 *****
 Consciousness comes in flashes, vanishing between blinks. He knows they get
out of the car, because Dean makes him walk, and his legs are water; then
there's a flight of stairs, or maybe the ground just feels like stairs, but
either way, Cas eels along as best he can, which isn't very, mumbling
incoherent apologies as Dean hauls his deadweight – somewhere. A bed? A couch?
It's furniture, anyway, and Cas faceplants into whatever-it-is with all the
grace of a dropped rock.
He doesn't remember rolling over, but when he next comes to, there's a cold
cloth on his forehead. It feels so good, he moans a little, and something
beside him moves.
'You thirsty?' Dean asks.
'Mm,' says Cas, and suddenly there's a glass at his lips. He swallows water,
little sips that soothe a throat he didn't know was sore, until he passes out
again, burrowing into softness.
He doesn't dream.
Some time later, he drifts awake to the sound of Dean's voice, a low,
comforting murmur. At first, it's just white noise, but slowly, steadily, the
words become intelligible, bringing him back to himself.
'… Alfie's fine, though. He texted you, said he was spending the night at his
friend Kevin's house, that your mom already said it was OK but that you could
call Kevin's mom if you wanted to make sure, and he sent you her number, so.
Uh. I rang it – I said I was you, and she didn't call bullshit, so I'm guessing
you haven't met her before – but she seemed nice, happy to have him and
whatever, so, yeah. Oh, and I texted Alfie back, said you were staying with a
friend, too, which I hope was cool – I mean, I'm totally crossing some
boundaries here, you can yell at me later, but I didn't really have a whole lot
of options, you know, what with your being passed out and all, and I just...
'God, Cas. I feel so fucking shady right now, like I'm sitting here watching
you sleep in my goddamn bed, but you kinda freaked me out before, and I didn't
want to leave you alone in case something happened, and I figure it's maybe
marginally less creepy if I talk, even if you can't hear me, so... yeah. Uh.
What else? I, uh. Oh. Um. I guess, I can – yeah, I mean, I should probably
practice this, right? Saying it out loud? So, OK: I'm sorry about last night. I
shouldn't have... god, I shouldn't have kissed you, not like that, not after
everything, I didn't – I just didn't think, and I know that's not a good
excuse, but you're so goddamn beautiful and – shit, now I really do sound like
a creeper, that's not – fuck – I mean... fuck. That's not it.
'Lemme try again, OK? It's just, I'm no good at this kinda thing, and I've
never been with a guy before, and I didn't even know I was bi until you shoved
me against the locker and I just, I don't know what it was, but it's like you
flipped a switch in me, and all this stuff I'd been trying not to think about
was just there, you know? And I feel like such a fucking tool for ever hanging
out with Roy, I know that doesn't fix it, but – Jesus, why is this so hard? I
shouldn't, I shouldn't have kissed you after I gave you the money, I shouldn't
have made you feel like you owed me something, I shouldn't have told you to get
out, I should've stayed, I should've made sure you were OK, but I didn't, Cas,
I didn't because I'm a coward, and a brat, and I'm selfish and entitled and
every other thing you said, but I want to be better, I want a chance to show
you that I can be better, and you don't, god, you don't owe me anything, not
like that – if all you want is a friend, I'll be your friend, and if you never
want to talk to me again, I'll leave you alone, I promise.
'But if, maybe, I don't know... if you wanted to maybe, uh... oh, fuck. I can't
say it. I can't say it while you're asleep, not like this, I feel like a
fucking kidnapper. I just want you to be all right, Cas. Please be all right.'
It's a dream, Cas thinks, dazedly. No way is there a version of the universe
where Dean Winchester sits by his bedside and takes the time to answer Alfie's
texts, let alone deliver an extensive, heartfelt monologue about how beautiful
Cas is while fuckingapologising for giving him nearly five hundred bucks and a
free ride home. No way is any of this real.
But then he opens his eyes, and there's Dean, sitting in a computer chair
pulled up to the bedside, staring at Cas with a mixture of concern and awe,
like he can't believe it, either.
'Oh, shit,' Dean breathes. 'Are you – are you awake?' And then, more shakily,
'How much of that did you hear?'
Heart pounding, Castiel reaches up and twines their fingers together. 'Enough,'
he says, and smiles.
 
                                       *
                                        
Dean can barely breathe. Cas's eyes are no longer bloodshot, bright blue
blinking up at him from underneath long, dark lashes. His hand burns where Cas
is holding it, and oh, god, he has to be so careful now – if he fucks this up
again, he's not sure he'll forgive himself. He slides off the chair to his
knees, putting them closer together, and when he speaks, his voice is shaky.
'Are you lucid, Cas? Are you really here?'
Cas's smile widens. 'Worried about taking advantage of me, Winchester?'
'Yes,' Dean whispers.
Slowly, gaze never wavering, Cas pulls their joined hands up to his mouth and
kisses Dean's knuckles, one by one. 'I am,' he says gravely, 'lucid –' he
kisses a fingertip, '– coherent –' the heel of Dean's palm, '– consenting –'
the inside of his wrist, '– and, ah –' he strokes his thumb along Dean's hand,
and says, almost shyly, '– yours, I think. If you want me. Which you might not.
But on the offchance –'
Dean leans in and kisses him.
This time, Castiel kisses back. His free hand tangles in Dean's hair, long
fingers teasing the nape of his neck. Dean shudders and moans, deepening the
kiss. He tastes like pot and, very faintly, of toothpaste, which should be
offputting, but really isn't. Castiel tugs his hair, making him gasp, then
pulls back just enough to mumble, 'Up, come here,' against Dean's mouth, and
who is he argue? Careful of Cas's injuries, he clambers up beside him, until
they're lying face to face, legs touching, breathing each other.
Tentatively, Dean lifts a hand and trails his fingertips over Cas's bruised
ribs, the mottled skin exposed where his shirt is rucked up. 'What happened?'
he asks, softly.
Cas sighs. 'I drank too much and fell in the shower. I passed out lying on the,
um, what do you call it? The runner, you know, the raised tracks where you
slide the door?' He makes an abortive gesture with his hand. 'Anyway, that
thing. I slept on it. Alfie had to wake me up.'
'You were there all night?'
'All night,' Cas says. 'And then I threw up half a bottle of bourbon, got
propositioned by my creepy-ass landlord, walked to school, got stoned, walked
into class looking like the poster child for domestic violence, and passed out
in your car. And here I am.'
He says it lightly, but his body tenses, like even now, he's expecting
rejection.
Instead, Dean kisses him gently. His hand ghosts up to Cas's bicep, curling
around the muscle, and in return Cas grips his hip, tugging him closer. Their
breathing quickens, and when Cas sucks Dean's bottom lip into his mouth, the
noise of pleasure he makes is downright embarrassing – or would be, if it
didn't prompt Cas to suck harder, slipping his hand up under the hem of Dean's
shirt. Dean rolls back, following the pressure of Cas's touch, and suddenly
he's being straddled, Cas's arms bracketing his head as he kisses him, slow and
filthy.
Dean's entire body lights up like a Christmas tree. He slides his palms up
Cas's thighs and down again, then props himself on his elbows, shimmying
upright until his back is braced against the headboard. They break the kiss,
and as Cas rests their foreheads together, he murmurs, 'You sure you've never
been with a guy before?'
'Pretty sure,' Dean gasps. He curls his fingers in Cas's shirt, tugging him
just that little bit closer, and then they're kissing again, Cas's hands
cradling Dean's face like he's something precious. They're both hard, and the
friction when Cas rocks his hips, rutting down on him, is electrifying.
Cas makes an urgent noise. 'What time is it?' he asks, dazedly leaning back.
'How long was I out?'
'A few hours,' Dean says, gulping. 'It's just after five, I think.'
'And Alfie's fine? He's at, ah, Kevin's house? Did I hear that right?'
'Yeah. Yeah, he is. Sorry, was that OK? I wasn't –'
'Dean,' Cas says, lips twitching, 'are you honestly trying to apologise for
making sure my brother was safe?'
'Well, when you put it like that –'
'You're right,' says Cas, and kisses the hinge of his jaw. 'It's unforgivable.'
Dean tips his head back, panting as Castiel kisses down his throat. His hands
come up of their own volition, skating over Cas's sides –
'Shit!' Cas yelps, flinching backwards.
'What did I – oh, your ribs, fuck.' Dean pulls his hands back, biting his lip.
'Are you OK?'
'Yeah,' says Cas, ruefully. 'It's not your fault. I did it to myself.'
'Still, though. I don't – I don't wanna hurt you.'
'You won't,' Cas says, and all at once, there's a hitch in his voice. 'Dean, I
– are you sure you want this? You could have anyone, and I don't – after
everything you saw, that I – what I am, I just – why me?'
Dean's chest tightens. Cas is shivering, eyes downcast.
Gently, Dean lifts Castiel's chin with a fingertip. 'I want you,' he says,
drymouthed. 'Cas, I think – I think I've wanted you for a while; I just didn't
know how to admit it. And what happened yesterday, that's not who you are, you
know? You draw pen tattoos on your arms in English and read novels under the
desk in Chem, and when Mr Kubrick made Charlie Bradbury cry last year, I know
you're the one who left that jar of origami dicks on his desk, because you're
smart and funny and kind and creative and you just, whenever you're around, I
can't not look at you, it's like you light the place up, like you – shit, I
don't know. Like when you set those firecrackers off at practice, the way you
were laughing, there was this joyfulness to it and god, I just wanted to join
in, and I –' he gulps, uncomfortably aware that he's rambling; Cas is wide-eyed
and silent, and Dean sucks in a final breath and says, in a rush, '– I don't
want anyone else.'
For a moment, Cas doesn't say anything; just sits there, cheeks flushed,
utterly stunned. Then:
'How are you even real?' Cas whispers. He strokes a thumb along Dean's cheek,
his touch impossibly light. 'OK. I – OK.' He laughs, pressing their foreheads
together. 'So, ah. You wanna, um. You wanna come shower with me? Because I'm
kind of gross right now, and after last night, I don't think I can be trusted
on my own.'
Dean smiles so wide, it's almost painful. 'Yeah,' he breathes, and kisses him
again. 'I think we can manage that.'  
***** Chapter 9 *****
Dazedly, Cas follows Dean down the hall to the bathroom, gulping as he takes in
the size and cleanliness of the Winchester home. They're on the second floor,
which is bigger than his entire house, and the soft cream walls are covered in
framed photos. When Dean pushes open the third door they come to – and how many
rooms do you really need, anyway? – Cas instinctively hunches in on himself. He
feels like he's in a fancy hotel: the shower is huge, the tiles are a glossy
blue-green, and the towels are big and soft. His reflection in the shining
mirror looks grimy, sordid; he flinches at the sight of himself, and wraps an
arm around his chest.
'Your house is nice,' he says, quietly.
Dean turns and looks at him, his expression melting in a way that does
something seriously unfair to Cas's insides, and steps into his personal space.
'Here,' he says, and carefully lifts up Cas's t-shirt, tugging it over his
head. Goosebumps prickle his arms as Dean undoes his jeans and slides them off
his hips, inhaling when he sees that Cas has nothing on underneath. His feet
are already bare, and once he steps out of his pants, he's naked and half-hard
in Dean Winchester's upstairs bathroom, which is hardly fair, as Dean himself
is still fully clothed, shoes and all.
'Your turn,' says Cas, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his mouth, and
before he can lose his nerve, he grips Dean's tee and drags it slowly over his
head.
Rationally, he thinks, he must have seen Dean shirtless before; he's hung
around the football field often enough during games or practice, smoking weed
with Meg and telling himself that their proximity to a bunch of attractive,
sweaty guys was just a pleasant bonus, instead of being the actual goddamn
point. But if he has, it was never like this, and he sure as hell didn't have
permission to reach out and touch, running his fingertips over the hard,
defined muscles. Dean leans into the contact, and when Cas looks up again, he's
shocked to see Dean's eyes blown wide with pleasure.
A smile quirks its way onto Castiel's lips. He might feel out of place, but
Dean Winchester wants him – actually wants him – and that's a kind of fragile
power he never expected to have. Slowly, careful of his side, he sinks to his
knees, savouring Dean's shocked gasp. Not breaking eye contact, Cas reaches
down and gently tugs off Dean's shoes and socks, setting them aside before
skimming his hands back up to the buttons of Dean's pants. They're both
breathing heavily now, and Cas's fingers shake as he reveals Dean's boxers
(dark green cotton; the fucking things match his eyes) and removes them, too.
Dean's cock is hard and, unlike Cas's own, cut. He looks at it, and tries not
to loathe himself at the realisation that, for all the contextual differences,
he's still managed to end up on his fucking knees in a bathroom.
'Cas,' Dean says, voice cracking, and then there's a hand in his hair – not
pulling him forwards, like Cas half expects, but stroking softly, tipping his
head up. 'You don't have to – god, come here,' and somehow Cas is on his feet,
and Dean is pulling him into a hug, one hand cradling his neck while the other
strokes his back.
'I'm sorry,' Cas rasps. He doesn't know quite what he's apologising for,
besides himself; but then, he supposes, that's more than enough.
Dean, though, seems to disagree. 'Shut up,' he says, voice rough with
affection, and guides them both into the shower.
Instead of two taps, there's a single dial on the wall, and when Dean turns it,
Cas jumps back, expecting the water to be cold. But of course, the Winchester
house has a functional boiler, and while it still takes a moment to reach full
heat, the initial spray is pleasantly warm. Cas groans in pleasure; even at
full blast, his own shower is never this hot, and for once, he doesn't have to
huddle and hunch to keep his whole body wet.
'Not that I'm fickle or anything,' he murmurs, sluicing water through his hair,
'but I want to marry your shower.'
'Get in line,' Dean says, chuckling. He steps close, hooking his chin over
Cas's shoulder, arms wrapping slowly around his chest, and kisses just behind
his ear. 'You wanna get cleaned up, Cas?'
The words shoot through him like nothing ever has. Cas moans assent and tips
his head back, heart pounding wildly. Still pressed against him, Dean splays a
possessive hand over Cas's stomach, grabs the soap, and starts to wash him.
It's the single most erotic thing that Cas has ever experienced. Dean goes
slowly, lathering his fingers, slick touch dragging lightly over wet skin, and
Cas is panting long before Dean so much as brushes his nipples, let alone
ventures lower down. He's achingly gentle around the bruise, the crusted blood
washing off like dirt, and then he moves back up again, stroking along his arms
and shoulders, skipping down to his hips.
'God, you're beautiful,' Dean murmurs, and only then does he slip a hand around
Cas's cock, the sudden contact jolting through him like lightning. Gasping, he
watches as Dean's soapy fingers slide along his length, and when he lifts his
other hand to tweak at a nipple, Cas lets out a noise that's embarrassingly
close to a whimper.
'I've got you,' Dean says, and kisses his neck, gripping Cas's hip to pull him
even closer. Cas can feel Dean's untended erection pressing against his ass,
and all at once, he's overwhelmed, because while he's technically the
experienced one when it comes to sex with men, nobody's ever taken care of him
like this, let alone so tenderly. Before he started selling himself, his entire
sexual history consisted of kissing, a couple of rushed handjobs, and getting
fucked in the back of a police cruiser by a reasonably hot deputy who, it
turned out, was quite happy to accept sexual favours in exchange for not
charging him with possession. Which, in hindsight, probably wasn't the best way
to lose his virginity, but at least the guy had tried to make it good for him,
and if the quid pro quo nature of the incident was ultimately responsible for
making Cas think he could cope with prostitution, then that was nobody's fault
but his own.
But Dean, who has every reason to be hesitant, is making him feel worshipped,
safe. There's an intimacy to it that flays him open, and suddenly Cas is right
on the edge, shuddering as he comes harder than he has in forever. Dean
continues to stroke him through it, and when he finally lets go, Cas turns in
the circle of his arms and kisses him fiercely, pushing him back against the
tiles.
'My turn,' he whispers, and slips a hand down between them.
 
                                       *
                                        
Dean's had handjobs before – hell, he's had sexy showers before, too – but
they've never felt like this. Cas slicks him up with a mixture of soap and
come, and just knowing that makes his eyes roll back. Dean moans, tilting his
head to give Cas better access to his throat, gasping at the bruising suck of
teeth and lips that follows. He'll have a hickie or two to explain, which ought
to bother him – he hasn't even come out yet, and they're going to lead to
questions – but the thought of being marked up has him thrusting into Cas's
fist, chasing the sleek friction with renewed urgency.
'Look at you,' Cas murmurs, sucking on his earlobe. 'You're perfect, Dean.'
'Not gonna last long,' he gasps out, blushing at his own honesty.
'Don't want you to last,' Cas says, and Dean can feel him smiling. 'I want you
to come for me.'
He flicks his wrist as he says it, soapy fingers skating down to press behind
Dean's balls, and at the brush of teeth on his neck, it's game over. He pants
out Cas's name, watching as his come spatters both their stomachs, and then
they're kissing, sweet and biting under the spray. Dean goes boneless, resting
his head on Castiel's shoulder, and flushes with pleasure when Cas murmurs,
'Fuck, that was hot.'
'Totally,' Dean agrees, and for a moment, they stay like that, arms looped
around each other.
'Not to ruin the mood,' says Cas, 'but are we in any danger of being walked in
on? I mean, is your family out or downstairs, or what? I never even asked,
though in fairness, though, you're pretty distracting.'
'Oh, like you're not?' Dean teases, nuzzling his throat. It feels like a
ridiculous thing to do, but Cas makes a breathy sound and practically melts
against him. Dean files the reaction away in a mental folder marked Things To
Do With Cas Again and pulls back a little, albeit reluctantly. 'They're out
now, but they should be home soon,' he admits. 'Um, do you wanna – you could
meet them, maybe? I mean, you don't have to, I don't wanna, um, push, but I
figure the whole coming out thing might go a little easier if I can show them
an actual boyfriend, you know?'
'Boyfriend?' Cas asks, hesitantly. 'You, I mean – you really want that with
me?'
Dean blinks at him. 'Yeah, Cas. Of course I do. What, did you think I was going
to just...' His voice trails off at the look on Cas's face, which is raw and
hopeful to the point of being wrecked, and all at once, Dean realises he's
never known Cas to date anyone; that up until yesterday, in fact, he didn't
even know he was into guys. 'Oh,' he says, eyes wide. 'Shit, you've never –
you've never done this before, have you? The dating thing, I mean, not sex.'
Cas shrugs like it's no big deal, but the vulnerability stays as he says, over-
casual, 'Nobody ever wanted me like that.'
'Well, I do,' says Dean, firmly. 'Is that all right?'
'Yeah,' Cas whispers. 'Yeah, that's – shit, Dean –' and kisses him, deep and
greedy, curling a hand around his neck and pressing their foreheads together.
'I, ah. I'm kind of a wreck, you know? Probably won't make the best first
impression.' He touches his bruises, cheek and rib. 'Plus, my clothes are
filthy.'
'Athletes get bruised all the time,' says Dean, 'and you can borrow some stuff
to wear, if you want.'
'I'm not an athlete, Dean. I mean, I run sometimes, but that hardly counts.'
Dean grins. 'They don't know that. We'll make something up.'
Cas quirks an eyebrow. 'And if I show up, freshly showered, wearing your
things, that's not going to start a riot?'
'Let them riot,' Dean says, shocked at his own vehemence. And then, more
softly: 'I want this, Cas. You're worth it.'
Cas sucks in breath and stares at him. 'Whatever I did to deserve you,' he
says, faintly, 'it must've been really fucking good.'
Dean smiles. 'Believe me, it was.'
'Oh? And what was that, exactly?'
Leaning in, he kisses Cas's jaw and says, quietly, 'You set off fireworks.'
 
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Summary
     Trigger warnings in the end notes.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Cas feels like he's floating. Dressed in a pair of soft grey sweats, a worn
blue shirt and a comfortable hoodie, he sits on the edge of Dean's bed,
mesmerised by the contents of the bookshelf opposite. He hadn't known Dean was
a reader – hadn't wanted to hope they had even that much in common – but he's
never been so happy to be proven wrong, especially when he finds Vonnegut
shelved alongside Butler, le Guin and Pratchett. The posters on the walls are a
mix of classic cars, star maps and action movies, and there are sparkly
princess stickers stuck all over his desk – Jo's handiwork, according to Dean,
but even if his little sister did put them there, Cas still thinks it's sweet
that he hasn't taken them off.
Right now, Dean's in the laundry, putting both their clothes in the wash. If
anyone asks, they're going to explain the shower, Cas's borrowed wardrobe and
his bruises with a single story: that Cas got hit in the face with a stray
baseball and crashed into Dean, knocking both of them into the mud. It's
actually not a bad fit, and while he feels guilty at the prospect of lying to
Dean's – to his boyfriend's family, it's still better than the alternative.
Behind him, the bedroom door clicks open. Cas jumps, fearing discovery, but
it's only Dean, carrying an empty laundry basket in one hand and a plate of
snacks in the other.
Cas grins. 'You come bearing food!'
'I thought you might be hungry,' Dean says, blushing.
'You win all the boyfriend points,' says Cas, and scoots up to make room for
Dean, thrilling at the way their legs press together. 'Those are totally a
thing, right?'
Dean smiles, ducking his head. 'They can be,' he says, and shyly proffers the
plate.
It's just some ham, cheese and crackers, but Cas can't remember the last time
someone brought him a meal, and even if he wasn't starving, the gesture alone
is endearing all by itself. Throat tight, he tears off a bit of ham, stacks it
on a cracker with a square of cheese, hesitates, and then lifts it up for Dean
to eat instead. Dean's eyes widen; he opens his mouth as much in surprise as
acceptance, and Cas's cheeks burn as he pops the food in, shivering at the
swipe of Dean's lips on his fingers. He drops his gaze to the plate,
embarrassed by the intimacy of it, and quickly assembles his own small serving,
groaning at the taste.
They eat in companionable silence, darting quick glances at each other, feet
nudging playfully, and it's all so sweet and simple and easy that Cas can
hardly believe it's his actual life. He can't remember the last time he felt
this good, and once the food is gone, Dean leans in and kisses him softly
again, until everything else disappears.
Something bangs downstairs, followed by a ruckus of inaudible shouts. They
break apart, and Dean makes a face
'Sammy and Jo,' he says. 'They don't exactly do quiet.'
'How old are they?' Cas asks.
'He's twelve, she's eleven, but the way they compete, you'd think they were
twins.' He sounds both exasperated and fond, and as a fellow older brother, Cas
knows the feeling well. Dean cocks his head, listening, then adds, 'I think
it's just them and mom. Dad sometimes meets up with them after tennis, but I
guess he's still working.' He swallows, suddenly looking nervous. 'Maybe that's
a good thing.'
'Hey,' says Cas, twining their fingers together. 'We don't have to do this now.
If you're not ready, it's fine. I can wait.'
'Thanks, Cas, but I think I'd rather get it over with, you know? Waiting won't
change how they feel. They'll either accept it or they won't.'
But what if they don't acceptme? Cas thinks, but keeps the fear to himself, and
when Dean stands, he follows, gripping his boyfriend's hand as they head
downstairs.
The sitting room is spacious, well-furnished, and occupied by Dean's siblings,
the younger Winchesters wrestling fiercely over whose turn it is to play as
Bowser in MarioKart. Jo has her brother in a headlock, the Wiimote held in her
other hand as she clicks through menu options.
'No fair!' Sam pants, trying to grab it from her. 'You always – ow!'
'Don't be such a baby!' Jo snaps, crowing triumphantly as her selection goes
through. 'You snooze, you – whoah!' She does a double-take, mouth hanging open
as she takes in Cas and Dean's joined hands. 'Dean's got a boyfriend,' she
breathes, slackening her grip enough for Sam to twist free and stare at them,
his hazel eyes owlish under messy bangs.
'Seriously?' he asks.
'Yeah, I do, actually,' Dean says. He raises an eyebrow at them. 'You got a
problem with it?'
Jo frowns, crossing her arms. She's tiny and blonde, and if Cas hadn't just
seen her wrestle her much taller brother to a standstill, he'd probably think
she was harmless. She lifts her chin imperiously. 'You better be good to him,'
she says. 'Or I'll draw dicks on your face.'
Sam snorts, and Cas suppresses a laugh. 'I'll be good,' he says, gravely.
'He got a name?' Sam asks, directing the question at Dean, who rolls his eyes
to the ceiling.
'No, Sammy. He doesn't. He's a nameless wonder.'
'I'm Cas,' says Cas, and Sam grins like he passed a test.
'Cool,' he says, and flops back on the couch. 'Just keep the gross makeouts
where I can't see them, and we'll be – hey, that's cheating!' he shouts,
indignantly grabbing his own Wiimote as Jo starts a race without him. Never has
being so quickly ignored felt so much like acceptance.
'Two down,' Dean murmurs, smiling slightly, and leads him into the kitchen,
where a tall blonde woman is busy unpacking groceries. She's wearing fitted
jeans and a white singlet under an unbuttoned, long-sleeved shirt, which makes
her look like she's stepped right out of a clothing catalogue, or maybe off a
yacht.
Cas gulps, and tries to project an air of Good Enough For Your Son.
'Mom?' says Dean, his voice much quieter than it was a moment ago.
'Yeah, sweetie?' she says, turning to face them. She's beautiful, of course –
Dean clearly takes after her – and as she takes in the sight of them, her lips
round in a soft O of surprise. Cas is damn near holding his breath, but then
she smiles, and it's like the sun coming out. 'Who's this?' she asks, and
there's pride and affection in her voice, as though she hasn't noticed his
bruises at all.
Dean visibly relaxes, but still gulps a bit as he says, 'This is Castiel Novak.
Cas. My boyfriend. I'm, uh. I'm bisexual. So.'
Cas squeezes his hand, and says, in his best if seldom-used Talking To Adults
Politely voice, 'It's nice to meet you, Mrs Winchester.'
'Call me Mary,' she says, smiling. 'Would you like to stay for dinner, Cas?'
'Yes, please,' he gets out, just as Dean says, 'Thanks!'
'Good!' she says, waving a hand at the groceries. 'In that case, you can both
help me unpack.'
Cas looks at Dean, who's almost vibrating with relief. He wonders if he can get
away with kissing him, and blushes to the roots of his hair when Dean leans in
and pecks his cheek.
'I'll show you where everything goes,' Dean says, and just like that, Cas finds
himself tasked with ferrying cans to the pantry, buzzing with happy adrenaline.
He's on his last trip when he hears the sound of the front door opening.
Footsteps follow, and then there's a chorus of muffled greetings as Dean's
father enters. Cas feels a frisson of nerves, and for a moment, he's tempted to
stay where he is, tucked out of sight with the dry goods and non-perishables.
But Mary's being so welcoming, and cowardice seems a poor way to repay Dean's
bravery in coming out for him, and so he takes a breath and exits the pantry,
smoothing his hands nervously down his thighs.
'Hi,' he says, re-entering the kitchen. 'I'm –'
The whole world freezes, along with Castiel's blood. The man standing opposite
him is barrel-chested and dark-haired, dressed in red flannel and oilsmeared
jeans, and from the expression of mounting fury on his face, it's clear he's
recognised Cas, too, and oh, god, Jesus, no, please, this isn't happening –
'Why is there a rent boy in my kitchen?' Dean's dad snarls, and Castiel chokes
on air, because this is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends,
this is the way the world ends: not with a bang, but with a man who once took a
swing at him for refusing lower the price of a fuck, and Cas doesn't know how
to breathe any more, and maybe he never did.
 
                                       *
                                        
'Did he tell you that's what he is?' John thunders, flicking his gaze to Mary.
Dean is rooted to the spot, his mental gears spinning madly in an effort to
process what's happening. Mary's face is white and pinched, and Cas just stands
there looking like he's been shot. 'Or did he lie about that, too, when he was
telling you god knows what about –'
'John!' Mary snaps, and Dean is shocked all over again: his mother almost never
gets angry, but she's furious now, staring at her husband like he's grown an
extra head. 'You will do our guest the courtesy of apologising this instant, or
so help me –'
'I am,' Cas whispers. It's barely audible, but everyone turns to stare at him
like he's shouting. 'What he says. I am.' He's almost crying, clutching
himself. 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll go –'
Dean finally unfreezes, rushing over to wrap Cas close before he can run away.
'You're not going anywhere,' he says, soft and fierce, and Cas struggles for a
full half-second before burying his face in Dean's shoulder, shaking like a
leaf.
'Quite right,' says Mary. Her voice is iron, and as she glares at John, Dean
sees the exact moment when his father mentally switches from offence to
defence, an alien ripple over his features that's all the more sickening for
being calculated. 'Explain yourself, John Winchester. Now.'
John licks his lips. 'I don't know what he's told you about me –'
'Nothing!' Dean yells, pulling Cas closer. 'He's never even met you, what the
fuck could he possibly –' Cas goes rigid against him, and Dean's stomach roils
with the ugliness of it. 'Oh, god. No. No, no. Dad?' His voice breaks
embarrassingly, and all at once, he remembers Cas kneeling in the bar bathroom,
the meaty crack as the biker slapped him. 'You didn't. Jesus, tell me you
didn't.'
'Don't be disgusting,' John says, but there's something off about his voice,
and Mary doesn't miss it.
'You called him a rent boy,' she says, flatly. 'You recognisedhim. Your very
first thought, in point of fact, was that he'd been telling tales about you.
Now, why would you assume a thing like that?'
John is turning red. 'Why the fuck else would he be here?' he snaps. 'His type
are all the same, I figured he'd seen me at the bar, wanted to try and make
trouble, maybe blackmail me –'
'Blackmail you with what, John? Unsubstantiated lies? And how – by coming to me
instead of you? That doesn't make a lick of sense.'
John opens his mouth. Shuts it again. He looks from his wife to his son, and
finally seems to register that Dean is holding Cas. He snorts, exasperated and
angry. 'That's what started all this? You suddenly think you're gay? And for
someone like him?' He shakes his head, lips twisting. 'Don't be ridiculous,
Dean.'
With everything else his father's said, this shouldn't be a gut-punch. Hell,
it's not even surprising, and yet it still hurts. 'I'm bisexual, not gay,' Dean
says, fighting to keep his voice even, 'and don't you dare, don't you even dare
start with me about Cas, OK? I don't know what the fuck's wrong with you, who
pissed in your goddamn Cheerios –'
'Don't you talk to me in that –'
'– but you can take your bigotry and fuck off with it,' Dean says, shouting him
down. 'All right? Because I don't, god, the way you're acting right now? You're
the opposite of everything you've ever taught me a good man should be, and I
can't even fucking look at you, dad.'
John makes a strangled noise, and in the silence that follows, Mary says, 'Your
son's right. Get out, John.'
Cas whimpers into his shoulder, and Dean just holds him, staring at a point on
the wall to the left of his father's head.
'You can't be serious! Mary, over a kid like –'
'Yes!' she roars. 'Over a fucking kid like, you judgemental, closeted asshole,
and do you know why? Because he's a kid, and as far as I'm concerned, you
forfeited any moral highground the second you decided to shame him for
something he shouldn't have to do, and if that wasn't reason enough, then being
a biphobic brute to your son would still put you over the line.' She folds her
arms, two high spots of colour on her cheeks, and says, more quietly, 'I'll
call you in a couple of days, and then we can talk about this. But if you don't
go now, then I'm changing the locks.'
Absolute silence.
And then, with all the stiff-jointed grace of an angry statue, John Winchester
turns and storms back out of the house.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Trigger warning for biphobia/homophobia.
***** Chapter 11 *****
It's like he's greening out again, he feels so weak. If Dean wasn't holding him
up, he'd have collapsed already – Dean, whose mother just threw her husband of
the houseon his behalf, and Cas can't do this, can't be responsible for
breaking up a marriage, but he's shaking too badly, he can't pull away, and so
he's trapped in a comforting hug that he doesn't deserve, the silent seconds
ticking by like bombs.
'Cas?' Dean says, his voice no less shaky than Castiel's legs. 'Are you OK?'
He hadn't thought he was crying, but when he lifts his head, he can feel it on
his face, the cold streaks drying like glue. 'No,' he rasps.
Dean looks stricken, and just at that moment, it's more than Cas can bear. He
stumbles backwards, banging into the kitchen island. 'I should go,' he says,
the words staccato against the granite, 'I should, I should, I fucking ruin
everything, I should never –' and then he's running, heedless of his bare feet
and his borrowed clothes, ashamed of himself for leaving but too broken up to
stay. The front door bangs in his wake; it's already getting dark outside, and
Cas bolts down the footpath, clutching his ribs in a futile effort to stop the
pain. He makes it half a block before he has to stop. The chilly concrete numbs
his soles, and it's another few minutes before he comes back to himself and
realises he has no idea where he is. He was completely out of it when Dean
brought him here, and in the early evening gloom, he can't make out so much as
a single landmark.
A white SUV pulls up on his left, the horn beeping softly. Cas nearly jumps out
of his skin, paling when he recognises the driver as Mary Winchester. She winds
down the streetside window, leaning her head across.
'Castiel,' she says, 'I'll understand if you'd rather not, but can I give you a
lift somewhere?'
Cas hugs himself and stares at his bare feet. His shoes are back at the house,
and he doesn't think he can face Dean right now – the guy defended him to his
dad, and Cas repaid him by running away – but he can't walk home like this,
either. Even if he knew the way, he'd rip his feet up doing it, and why does
every fucking thing in his life come down to money, to medical bills?
'Why the fuck not,' he says. He means it to be angry, but it comes out thin,
the words half blown away on the wind, and before he can change his mind, he
climbs up into the passenger seat beside her.
Cas stares fixedly at the dashboard. It's like they're stuck in a strange
détente: he doesn't put on his seatbelt, and Mary doesn't start the engine. The
silence stretches like an inflating balloon, taking up steadily more space.
Castiel tries to outlast it, but he doesn't understand this woman; doesn't know
why she approved of him, defended him, when any normal person would've thrown
him out on his ass, and finally he cracks.
'He never fucked me,' he blurts, wincing at the baldness of it. 'I mean – shit.
I mean he didn't, we never... did anything. Like that.' He squeezes his hands
between his knees, unable to meet her gaze.
'But?' she prompts, and god, how the fuck is she being so calm?
Cas takes a breath and shuts his eyes. 'But he wanted to. He just didn't like
the price.'
Mary inhales sharply. Cas sneaks a glance, and sees her hands are fisted on her
thighs. Very slowly, she says, 'John tried to... haggle you down?'
'Yes.'
'For sex.'
'Yes.'
'And when you said no?'
Cas hesitates.
'Castiel?' Her voice is soft, but urgent. 'What did he do?'
'He took a swing at me, OK?' He jerks his head up, staring at her, angry and
hurt and wanting to share it. 'He said I was worth a fifty or nothing, that I'd
be lucky –' he chokes, refusing the lump in his throat, '– lucky if anyone
wanted me at all, but our insurance lapsed and my brother was sick, and I
didn't, I didn't want to do it for so little, I just wanted to get it over
with, get what I needed, and he didn't like that, so he came at me and I ran
away and he looked like he wanted to chase me, but the bartender yelled about
cameras and he sat right back down, and I never went back to that place again,
and I'm sorry I dragged Dean into it, I told him he deserves better than me,
but he was being so nice, and I wanted –' he rocks forward, resting his head on
the dash, '– I just wanted him, I wanted –'
And then he's crying, heaving sobs, and even the fact that this is the third
time in two days that he's broken down in a Winchester car isn't sufficient to
make him stop.
'Oh, sweetheart,' Mary says, and Castiel isn't quite sure how it happens, but
she pulls him into a hug, stroking his back, and he cries on her like he used
to cry on his own mother as a kid, until he doesn't have anything left in him.
'You're being so nice,' he mumbles, thoroughly ashamed of himself. He sits
back, staring at his hands again. 'I don't understand why you're being so nice
to me.'
'Because,' says Mary, 'this isn't your fault. My husband –' She breaks off,
staring out the window, jaw clenched, then lets out her breath in a quiet
exhale. 'You're not the one who needs to hear this,' she says, softly. 'The way
he's treated you is unforgivable, and I don't... there's no onus on you to try
and make sense of it. You don't owe him that. But I want you to know how sorry
I am, and that you're always welcome in our home.'
Cas gives a hoarse laugh. 'You really think Dean still wants me after this? I
basically ruined his family, and then I ran out on him.'
'Castiel. Look at me.' He does, and she fixes him with a stare that's no less
green than her son's. 'You haven't ruined anything. Whatever fallout there is,
that's on John, not you, and Dean... if anything, he's worried that you don't
want him.'
His mouth hangs open. 'That's insane!' he says. 'I just, I don't – why would he
even – how could he possibly –' He shakes his head in exasperation. 'God, what
a pair. The two of you are fucking saints, you know that? What, did you sprout
fully formed from some celestial garden of goodness?'
Mary smiles, a soft, complicated expression. 'Funny you should say that,' she
says. 'Here, let me show you something.' And as Castiel stares, astonished, she
slips her overshirt off her shoulder, revealing a faded sleeve tattoo. Or mess
of tattoos, rather: some of them are poorly done, the sort of smudged lines
that look more like they were made with a sewing needle and homemade ink than
in a tattoo studio, but all of them are colourful, stretching out from Mary's
shoulder to just above her elbow.
And right on the meat of her arm, in prominent, careful lettering, is a phrase
that makes Castiel's eyes bug out:
 
            Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.
                                        
He reads it three times, miming the words to make sure he's got them right. He
looks at Mary again, mouth shaping aimlessly around a question he doesn't know
how to ask. She quirks her lips and pulls her shirt back into place.
'I wasn't born a wife and mother,' she says, wryly. 'People see me now, they
assume a certain trajectory. But life isn't as simple as all that, so every
once in a while, I like to wear sleeveless tops in public and throw off their
calculations.'
Cas laughs despite himself, and Mary responds by reaching into her pocket,
pulling out a phone – his phone, he realises – and pushing it into his hand.
'Dean asked me to give that to you,' she says. 'He programmed his number in,
which I hope is all right, but like I said, he was very concerned you wouldn't
want to talk to him.'
'Well, he's an idiot,' Cas mumbles, slinking down into the seat.
Mary smiles and turns the key in the ignition. 'Now. Where can I drop you off?'
Cas buckles his seatbelt, and tells her.
 
                                       *
                                        
Dean lies curled on his mattress, utterly heartsick. Over and over, he replays
what John said, what Cas said, trying to find an interpretation that doesn't
imply his father did something that makes him want to vomit. Even when they
don't see eye to eye, he's always respected his dad, but tonight has utterly
shredded that faith, and he doesn't know that he'll ever get it back.
At least Sammy and Jo had the volume up so loud in MarioKart that they didn't
hear the argument. That's the only good thing going for him right now – that,
and the hope that maybe his mom will give Cas his phone, so that when Dean
texts him and Cas doesn't answer, he'll know for sure that it's over.
God, I don't want it to be over.
He shoves his face in the pillow, groaning quietly. He doesn't exactly sleep,
but he loses track of time, and suddenly his mom is back, poking her head into
his room with a quiet, 'Dean? Can I talk to you, sweetie?'
'Yeah,' he says, voice rough, and curls up his legs to make room for her.
'I drove Castiel home,' she says, without preamble, 'and no, he doesn't hate
you. He was worried you wouldn't forgive him for running away, but I set him
straight on that count, and he has his phone again. So.'
'Thank you,' he whispers.
'What are mothers for, hm?' She pats his foot through the comforter, sighs. 'Do
you want to go first, or should I?'
Dean lets out a shaky breath. 'I will,' he says, and before she can so much as
nod, the words are pouring out of him: how he's always noticed Cas, always
thought he was special but didn't know how to say it; the incident with Roy;
what happened at the bar –
'I gave him four hundred and fifty dollars,' he says, gulping. 'I know it's a
lot of money, but I just – the way that guy treated him, and how he looked
afterwards, I couldn't – god, he just was so miserable, I couldn't bear it, and
then I kissed him in the car, and it was such a stupid thing to do, I made him
feel like I'd bought him –'
His mother makes soothing noises, and Dean keeps right on talking, omitting
only that Cas was stoned at school and the fact that they shared a shower. He
finally runs out of steam, and for a moment, Mary just sits there, taking it
all in.
'You did the right thing,' she says, quietly. 'Giving him the money, I mean. It
was a wonderful thing to do, and I'm proud of you. I just wish – I wish your
father had been so good, too.'
Dean goes very still. 'Did he – with Cas, did he ever –?'
'No,' says Mary, and Dean stares at her, sure that she must be lying until she
says it again; more calmly, this time. 'No, he didn't. I asked outright, and I
believed his answer.'
'Which was?'
'That John changed his mind. He thought the price was too high.'
'The price?' Dean says, absurdly hopeful. 'You mean, like the cost to us?'
Mary winces. 'No, Dean. I mean the literal price. He thought it was too
expensive.'
'Oh.'
'I know.'
They sit in silence, not quite looking at each other.
'You called him closeted,' Dean says, softly. 'When you were yelling earlier.
Did you – is he –?'
His mother sighs, leaning back against the wall. 'Your father is...
complicated. When he was growing up, it was still taboo to be gay, and nobody
really talked about being bisexual like they do now – or if they did, it wasn't
a conversation he could easily access. When I first met John, we were both at
something of a lose end, rebelling in our different ways, and – well. That's a
much longer story. The point is, there were times when I certainly thought that
he was attracted to men as well as women, but he always denied it, and I knew
he loved me, so I didn't push, and while I've done my best to encourage him to
be honest with himself, it's always been a sore subject between us.'
She pauses, curls her hands into fists, then straightens them out again. 'I
don't know if he's ever acted on his desires before. I've had my suspicions at
times, and if he'd approached a consenting adult, even for money, that would
have been one thing. But propositioning someone like Castiel – someone young
and vulnerable, a teenager, and then to dehumanise him like that, and to lash
out at you – that, I'm having a hard time forgiving. And maybe I shouldn't.'
She looks at him, and he's horrified to see her eyes are wet. 'I'm so sorry,
sweetie.'
'Mom, no! God, this isn't your fault.' He pulls her into a crushing hug, his
throat suddenly tight. 'It's him, it's all on him. You tried to help, you took
Cas home – dad's the one being a douchebag, here. And if you, whatever you want
to do next, I'm on your side, OK? I'm on your side, because I brought home a
guy with pierced ears and a bruised cheek and told you I was bi, and you didn't
even question it, you made us both feel normal, you know? But even without the
other stuff, what dad said to me, I feel like... god, I feel like he would've
said it anyway, even if he hadn't recognised Cas, and that just makes it a
thousand times worse.'
He shuts his eyes, a cracked laugh in his throat. 'I mean, shit, it's not like
being angry and self-hating and rattled is a good excuse to begin with, not
after what he did, but if I'd caught him at the best possible time, in the best
possible mood, with a guy that he already knew and liked – fuck, if I'd brought
home fuckingRoy, he loves Roy – and he was stillalways going to shake his head
and tell me I was ridiculous, then why the fuck should I bother?'
'I know, sweetie,' Mary says, and suddenly, it feels like she's the one holding
him. 'I... I can't make any promises. Whatever I decide, it's going to be
complicated. We'll all have to work at it, even Sam and Jo. But Castiel –' She
pulls back, looks him square in the face,and says, 'I know you already know
this, but it isn't his fault, either. I told him that he's welcome in this
house, and I meant it. I just... I don't want you to think you have to
sacrifice anything because of your father's problems. You've dated before, but
you've never been as eager to introduce me to someone as you were tonight, and
from what I've seen, he's someone quite special.'
Dean digests this information, swallowing nervously. 'And you're not... you're
really not bothered about what he's done?'
Mary raises an eyebrow. 'Are you?'
'No!' says Dean, hotly. 'I mean, god, it's not like he was – he never lied to
me about it, and I hate that he had to do it at all, because it wasn't safe and
it wasn't making him happy, but that doesn't change how I feel about him.'
Gently, his mother cups his cheek. 'I raised you right, kiddo,' she says, and
drops a kiss on his forehead. 'And not to go all after school special on you,
but on the subject of safety, I'd take it as a personal favour if you'd both
find time to visit the free clinic, OK?'
A day ago, it would have been a mortifying comment. Instead, Dean nods and
says, 'OK.'
Something buzzes against his desk. Dean blinks, confused, then sucks in breath:
it's his mobile, ringing on silent.
'Is that –?'
Mary stands and checks the phone. 'It is,' she says, smiling. 'I asked him to
wait until about now before calling you, so we'd have time to talk first. You
tell him from me, he's got perfect timing.' And without another word, she hands
it over and leaves the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
Drymouthed, Dean stares down at his mobile. He waits a moment, gathers his
courage, and answers the call.
'Cas?' he asks, voice shaking.
'Hello, Dean,' says Cas.
 
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Summary
     Trigger warning for this chapter in the endnotes.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
 Cas sits in the window seat beside his bed, his back pressed hard to the wood.
One arm wraps across his ribs; the other holds his phone. He listens to Dean
breathe, in and out and in again, unable to break the silence. He wants to say
so much, but all of it feels inadequate, and Mary was nice to him in the car –
was unbelievably kind and cool – but now he's by himself again, and the
wrenching guilt feels like poison. He's ruined her marriage. He's ruined Dean's
fucking family, and how can he possibly make it better? If Castiel hadn't been
at the house – if he hadn't been so pathetically stoned and drunk that Dean had
to haul him out of class – then none of this would've happened.
'You still with me, Cas?' Dean asks, softly.
'Yeah.' He sucks in a shaky breath. 'Yeah, I'm here. I'm sorry.' I'm sorry for
everything.
'Don't be,' says Dean. 'Not for – not for anything, OK? I spoke to my mom, and
she told me some stuff... Cas, this isn't your fault. My dad's a dick –' his
voice cracks a little, and Castiel shudderswith how much he hates himself for
this, '– and that's on him, not you.'
Cas has nothing to say to that. He can't bring himself to agree, but he doesn't
want to fight with Dean, either. Instead, he tips his head back and says, after
three full seconds of silence, 'My mom picked up an overnight shift at the bar
tonight. She left a note. She'll be back tomorrow, I guess. Said she'd pick up
Alfie in the morning. But I wouldn't bet on it.'
'Oh,' says Dean. 'Is that, um –'
'It's not her fault,' says Cas, blankly. 'I mean, she tries. She works hard,
she goes out. She copes, she forgets. I just. I wish she knew, sometimes, you
know? I wish she knew what I'd done, I wish she'd tell me I did good, that I
did what I had to. I wish she'd forgive me. I wish she'd be angry, tell me to
never do it again, that we'll work something out. But I think.' He shuts his
eyes, hating the tears that slip out. 'I think, if she knew, she wouldn't do
any of that.'
'Cas –'
'I think she'd just ask me how much. Pragmatic, you know. And then she'd say,
OK, Cassie. OK. And then she'd go out again.'
Saying it, he feels weirdly light. Cold and calm, like there's metal under his
skin. His throat is tight, but he's not crying; not really. He doesn't have any
real tears left. He doesn't have anything real at all. There's just his room,
and his crappy phone, and the voice of a boy he'll never deserve.
Slowly, Cas moves onto his bed. His limbs feel stiff, like they're made of
wood. He's dimly aware of background noise on Dean's end, but he tunes it out,
shuffling himself upright. He puts his legs over the mattress, toes on the
threadbare rug, and opens the rickety drawer of his bedside table.
'Dean?'
'Yeah, Cas?'
'I'm really sorry.'
'I get that, but you don't have to be.' More background noise: distant voices,
a door closing. 'I meant what I said, OK? You're my boyfriend. I want to be
with you.'
'You shouldn't, though. I'm not worth it.'
'Don't say that.'
'Why not?' says Cas, bleakly. 'It's true. I'm a homewrecking whore.'
'Bullshit,' Dean snaps, and there's anger in his voice, and desperation, and
maybe just a tiny bit of fear. 'You're not – you don't get to decide how I feel
about you, Cas. You're none of that.'
Castiel pulls the drawer onto his lap. 'Logic goes both ways, Dean. If I can't
choose your feelings, you can't choose mine.'
'I can if yours suck.'
He snorts at that, the humour reflexive. 'Hypocrite.'
'Says the guy who's blaming himself for something that's not his fault.'
'This must be some strange usage of the word, fault, that I wasn't previously
aware of.'
Dean makes a choking noise. 'You're quoting the Hitchhiker's Guideat me now?
That's low, Cas. I can't compete with Adams.'
'Nobody can compete with Adams. That's the point.'
'Still, though. You're wrong.'
Cas finds what he wants and pulls it out, letting the drawer slide down onto
the mattress. 'I'm very wrong,' he agrees, the plastic cold in his hand.
'You're getting it. Wrong in all the ways.'
'Goddamit, you know that's not what I meant –'
'I'm tired, Dean,' Cas says, quietly. 'I'm tired all the time. I hate maths,
but I'm always counting, I always have numbers in my head, you know? I have to
remember my shifts and work out tips and my grade point average and class times
and bank accounts and gas bills and rent and what's in the fucking biscuit tin
and which brand is cheapest, and how much it'll cost to get Alfie new shoes or
go on a field trip, and how much –' his voice cracks awfully, '– how much we
can fall behind before I need to start sucking cock again, and what to charge,
and I can't do it any more, I can't live like this, I can't be the guy who
broke his boyfriend's family –'
'Cas, please –'
'– I just can't, Dean, OK? And I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry –' he thumbs the
boxcutter open, throat tight as he stares at the blade, '– but I'm not gonna
pull you down with me. So. So you can just, you can do better, you know? You'll
do better. You'll all be better off.'
'Jesus, no, Cas, no no –' Dean sounds frantic, the phone crackling like he's
got it jammed between his ear and his shoulder, '– please tell me this isn't
what I think it is, please don't do anything stupid, please –'
'You'll get over it,' Cas says. His voice sounds faint and sick, even in his
own ears, and part of him is paralysed, like he can't believe he's doing this,
but the rest of him is tired and hurt and so fucking ashamed, he just wants to
lie down forever, and everyone knows there's only one way to do that, and so
what if it's selfish? Selflessness is what got him here, and idiocy, and sheer
bad luck, and maybe this is dumb, too, but he's all out of options, and what
the fuck is Dean thinking, that they're going to sit around and play happy
fucking families when Cas is the reason that Dean doesn't have one any more?
And even if they last for a bit, they'll break up in the end, and nobody else
is ever going to want him, not after what he's done, and it's better this way,
it just is, OK? Dean can find someone good to date, his parents can make up,
Cas's mom will have more money for Alfie –
'Money!' Dean yells, and only then does Cas realise he's been saying all this
out loud, that Dean's still on the phone with him, and he's about to hang up
when Dean chokes out, 'You think fucking dying is cheap? They'll have to pay to
bury you, Cas, they'll have to pay for a coffin and a headstone and a fucking
priest, Jesus, you'll leave them in debt, you don't want that, I know you don't
–'
'Stop,' Cas whispers, horrified. 'No, that's not – that's not what I meant, I
don't want that –'
'– Damn right you don't,because you're not fucking dying, I swear to fucking
god, Cas, don't make me call an ambulance, you know how fucking expensive those
things are? I'll call one right now, I'll send it straight to your house –'
there's a screeching sound, a thump, a burst of footsteps, '– shit, I'll call
three, I'll call out every one they have –'
'Dean –' Cas says, then breaks off, dropping the phone in shock, because
someone's at his door and pounding the wood like they're trying to break it
down, and oh, god, what if it's John Winchester, come to get revenge? But
weirdly, the thought doesn't frighten him. His stomach drops, and he nods to
himself. The perfect end to a perfect evening. Of course it's John Winchester,
dumbass. Who else would it possibly be? What else do you deserve?
'Cas? Cas!' Dean's yelling at him through the phone, loud enough to be audible
even with the speaker off, but Castiel doesn't answer. Instead, he stands,
still gripping the knife as he heads to the door, heart thumping in time with
the hammering blows. I'm going to die, he thinks wildly, unlocking the door,
and it's halfway open before he thinks, Shit, but I want to live–
Cas freezes, a burning lump in his throat.
It's not John Winchester, after all.
It's Dean.
 
                                       *
                                        
For a moment, Dean just stares at him. Cas is still in his sweats and hoodie,
his dark hair sticking up every which way, and if it weren't for the yellow
boxcutter clenched in his hand, Dean would have hugged him already. Instead, he
slowly pockets his phone – no sudden movements – and swallows, heart in mouth.
'Hey, Cas,' he whispers, voice hoarse from yelling. 'You think you can put that
down, baby? Just put it down, it's OK, you don't need it, I promise you don't
–' he stretches out a hand, so slow, and Castiel flinches, but doesn't step
back, '– just give it to me, I'll take care of it, I'll take care of you,
please –'
He slides his palm over Cas's knuckles, the touch feather-light, and as Cas
starts to uncurl his fingers, blue eyes wide, Dean reaches up with his other
hand and takes the knife away, flinging into the street behind without a
backwards glance. Cas makes a noise in the back of his throat, a soft, abortive
ah!, and then he collapses, flinging his arms around Dean's neck, face buried
in his shoulder.
'I'm sorry,' he gasps, and something in Dean breaks: he lets out a sob and
wraps Cas close, just holds him and holds him, both of them shaking, gripping
tight as they babble over the top of each other, muffled words into
collarbones.
'– so sorry, I didn't, I couldn't, I don't, Dean –'
'– it's all right, I've got you, it's OK, it's all OK –'
As one, they step back into the house. Dean kicks the door shut, skims his
hands up Cas's arms to smooth through his hair, fingers trembling with the
weight of almost. Their gazes lock, and Cas looks raw, more naked than he was
in the shower. His lips part, but he doesn't speak, and Dean doesn't, either;
he used up all his words on the drive over, knew something was wrong the second
Cas started talking about his mom in that weird, flat way, like it wasn't even
his voice any more, got straight in the car and drove and begged and yelled and
somehow it worked, it fucking worked, he got here in time, and now –
Cas surges up and kisses him, hungry and urgent, and Dean kisses back, gripping
Cas's hips.
'I'm sorry,' Cas whispers against his mouth, 'I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry
–'
Dean presses their foreheads together, tears slipping down his cheeks. 'Tell me
what you need, Cas. I'll do anything, just don't go away, don't do that again
–'
'– I won't, I promise, I didn't want to die –' Cas draws a shuddering breath,
pulls back to look him in the eye, '– I promise, Dean, I'm not going anywhere,
not like that –'
Dean kisses him again, soft and desperate, and Castiel whimpers, clutching at
his shirt.
They part just enough to breathe each other, cheeks pressed close, and into
their shared warmth, Cas says, 'Come lie down with me?'
'Whatever you want,' Dean whispers, and twines their fingers together.
Chapter End Notes
     Trigger warning: suicidal ideation, discussion of death, abortive
     suicide attempt. (Nothing graphic - Cas thinks about killing himself,
     and Dean talks him down.)
***** Chapter 13 *****
Cas leads Dean into his room, shoulders hunching at how shabby it looks. The
drawer is still on the bed, which makes him remember the boxcutter, and he
hurries to fix the bedside table, hands shaking enough that it takes three
tries to slide the drawer home. He sits down on the bed, hands folded in his
lap, and makes a choked noise of relief when Dean sits next to him, curling an
arm around his waist.
'I don't want sex,' Cas mumbles, feeling he should make this clear. He leans
into Dean's warm body, feeling his heartbeat start to settle 'Not now, anyway.'
Dean's lips brush his temple. 'Fine with me,' he murmurs. 'You want to get
under the covers?'
'Yeah,' says Cas – and then, feeling bold, 'and undressed, too. I mean, if
that's – if you – if that's OK –'
'Whatever you want,' Dean says again, and toes his shoes off onto the bedroom
floor.
They undress in silence – Cas actually gets a pair of cotton briefs out of his
dresser, not wanting to be wholly naked, and puts them on; his other pair are
still in the wash at Dean's – and slide into bed together, Cas's head pillowed
on Dean's chest. It's a snug fit in the single frame, but worth it a thousand
times over for the way Dean's skin is warm against his, the steady drum of his
heart under Cas's ear. Their legs tangle, bodies flush, the covers pulled up to
Cas's cheek, and it feels like safe and home. From time to time, Dean's fingers
move along his ribs, stroking softly, or else he lifts his chin and kisses Cas
where he can reach, his nose or cheek or temple, and Cas presses even closer
against him, one hand splayed possessively over Dean's bare shoulder, wishing
he could leave a mark that says mine.
They're silent for so long, time loses all sense of itself. It's a deep quiet,
unhurried and unsettled, like lying awake at night when there's nothing to do
in the morning. The overhead light is off, but the hall light is on and the
door ajar, so everything's washed in silver shades, like the underside of a
raincloud. It's peaceful in a way that makes Cas ache, to think that he nearly
gave it up, and it could be twenty minutes or eighty before he says, softly,
'I've never had someone like you before.'
Dean shifts position, moving just enough that they can look at each other, and
Cas's breath catches in his throat, because Dean is good-looking even from a
distance, but up close –
'You're beautiful, Dean,' Cas says. His hand moves up Dean's collarbone to
gently cup his cheek. Dean's eyes widen; his lips part on a quiet inhale, and
Castiel lets his thumb fall down, tracing across his mouth. 'Everyone sees you.
We can't not, you're so – it's like there's a light in you that won't go out,
and I tried, I tried so hard not to see it, because if I let myself want you,
it was just one more thing that I'd never get to have, and I was just...' He
trails away, dropping his gaze – or tries to, anyway.
But Dean won't let him. Instead, he lifts up Cas's chin, his broad hand warm on
Cas's jaw, and says, 'You're not just anything, Cas. You never were,' and
kisses the edge of his thumb.
 
                                       *
                                        
Cas goes still in Dean's arms, but the look that spreads over his face is one
of astonished hope.
'You really want this,' Cas says, wonderingly. 'You really... god. You want me.
You want me?'
'I want you.'
Cas huffs with laughter. 'Are you a masochist?'
'Possibly.' Dean strokes his neck, smiling. 'Maybe I'm just a Cas-ochist.'
Cas groans. 'God, you're a dork,' he says, fondly – and then, breath hitching
just a little, 'But you're my dork.'
'Definitely your dork,' Dean says, and leans in to kiss the corner of his
mouth. More quietly, he says, 'I mean it, Cas. I know your life isn't easy, and
I'm not gonna pretend that my dad – that anything about my dad is easy, either,
but you're worth it, you're worth so damn much, and if you ever feel like that
again, like you want to – to stop –' he falters over the word, has to choke it
out, '– you call me again, OK? Wherever you are, you call me, and I'll come.'
'I believe you,' Cas whispers, and Dean pulls him tight again, presses his
forehead to Cas's shoulder and breathes in the clean, sharp scent of him. Their
hips align, and his cock gives an interested twitch, but Dean ignores it,
wanting just to be close. Well, if he's honest, he wants more than that, but
Cas said no sex, and no way is Dean going to poke at a limitation like that –
not now, not ever. And yet there's something niggling at him from earlier, the
way Cas was when he knelt in the bathroom, like maybe they'd both been
remembering the bar, and all at once, Dean knows what he wants to say, though
he's slightly embarrassed to say it.
'Cas?' he asks, not lifting his head. His eyelashes flutter against Cas's
throat.
'Yeah?'
'I, uh. With sex, you know, I'm happy to wait, I don't ever want you to feel
like you have to do anything you don't want, and if we start and you want to
stop, that's OK, too – I mean, obviously it's OK, I just want to make sure you
know that Iknow it's OK –'
'Dean,' says Cas, sounding mildly amused, 'not that I don't appreciate the
sentiment, but why –'
'– but when – but if we do,' says Dean, cheeks heating as he continues, 'I'd
like, um, if you wanted – I'd want you to fuck me. To top,' he adds, in case
that wasn't clear enough, then presses his face abashedly into Cas's shoulder
and mumbles, 'But only if you want.'
Cas inhales sharply. 'Jesus, Dean,' he breathes. 'That's – god, yeah, yes, I
would really –' he moves against him, and Dean shudders at the realisation that
Cas is hard, too, '– really enjoy that. Yes.' And he mouths at Dean's throat
where it joins his shoulder, teeth pressing down as he sucks a hickey into the
skin.
Dean makes an unintelligible noise, gasping as Cas rolls him onto his back and
kisses him soundly, rutting down against him. His blue eyes are blown wide, and
the look on his face is awe and hunger, reverence and need.
'Cas,' Dean pants, his every nerve alight, 'I didn't mean – we don't have to –'
Cas drops his head and licks the sensitive skin behind Dean's ear, which – holy
god. He actually moans, back bowing up off the bed, completely helpless.
'I know,' Cas whispers, nipping at his throat. 'I know what I said. But I am,
shall we say, reconsidering, in light of new information.'
'I can live with that,' Dean gasps, and Cas's answering smile is the best thing
he's ever seen.
***** Chapter 14 *****
He's thought about it before; of course he has, and not just because Dean
Winchester is a regular star in his masturbatory fantasies. Cas has imagined
having him, and being had by him, with a detail and frequency rivalled only by
his thoughts about Chris Evans, and even then, Dean still comes out ahead. But
what he hasn't thought about – or rather, what he tries very hard not to think
about, being as how it constitutes dangerous emotional territory – is the fact
that, for all the times he's sold himself, he still has one virginity left to
lose.
And Dean just offered to take it.
Or, shit. Be taken by it? Is that a thing? That's the fucking problem with
virginity as a concept, Cas thinks, flicking his tongue against Dean's nipple:
it's all about loss from cock takingas opposed to cock giving, and where that
leaves most lesbians he doesn't know, but the idea that you might gain
something from it instead – like self-respect, maybe, or hope – never seems to
rate a mention.
Dean gasps, his fingers scraping lightly against Cas's scalp as he mouths down
his chest. He's all-over freckled and golden, and when he obligingly lifts his
hips for Cas to tug his boxers off, he's only a little paler underneath.
'Cas, hey,' Dean says, a gulp in his voice. 'Hey, are you sure?'
Cas looks up, his palms still flat to Dean's thighs. Dean is panting, propped
on his elbows, green eyes wide, and it's not like Cas didn't trust him already
– shit, after the past few days, he can't think of anyone he trusts more – but
all at once, he's hit with a sense of absolute faith and certainty that just
about undoes him. Dean has helped him, held him, defendedhim, and never once
passed judgement; he's lost his friends and maybe even his father for Cas's
sake, and still, when Cas broke down and fled, it was Dean who came running,
Dean who took the knife from his hand; Dean, who's still trying to make sure
he's OK, instead of just jumping him –
Shit.
'Are you?' Cas asks, softly.
Dean hesitates, and it's all the answer Cas needs. He's still aroused as hell,
it's not like his dick can downshift at the drop of a hat, but he slides back
up Dean's body and kisses him, deep and gentle, to let him know it's OK.
'This is not,' Cas says, 'the back seat of a police car.'
Dean blinks dazedly up at him. 'Huh?'
'That's where I was, my first time,' Cas murmurs, shifting to lie alongside
Dean. They fit together like puzzle pieces, knees and arms and wrists. 'The
back seat of a police car. It was rushed, but he didn't hurt me, and I guess it
was good, but that's not –' he sucks in breath, forces himself to look at Dean,
'– god, I want this, but I don't want to rush you, either. You deserve better
than that. And I think... I think maybe I do, too. Better than rushing, that
is, not better than you. I couldn't do better than you, not in a million years,
but I've only got the one first left to lose.'
It takes a second for Dean to catch the inference, but when he does, his eyes
widen. 'You've never topped? Not even with a girl?'
Cas smiles. 'I'm gay, Dean.'
'Oh. Oh, right. Yeah.' Dean licks his lips, which is stupidly distracting, and
says, in a very small voice, 'But you're not, I mean – is this okay? A minute
ago, you were all –' he waves a hand, '– and now we're just –'
'Listen,' says Cas, and there's a shake in his voice that shuts Dean right up.
He lifts his hand, thumb brushing gently along Dean's jaw, and tries to find
the right words. 'I don't know what you see in me. No, don't interrupt, I'm not
fishing for compliments, I'm just – you've given up a lot, put up with a lot,
to even get me here, and I'm ten pounds of issues in a five pound bag on a good
day, Dean, that's just a statement of fact, and it's gonna take me a while to
get used to the idea that I get to have any of this, really have it, you know?
But I trust you.' He pauses, the truth of it starbursting through him, and
warms at the way Dean smiles. 'I trust you, and I want you, and I want to do
this right, or as right as I'm capable of doing it, and that means you get a
better first time than I did. Way better, OK? Because it's – it'll be
overwhelming, and it takes time, and you want, you really want to be
comfortable and relaxed, and – have you ever even fingered yourself before?'
The question pops out of its own accord, and Dean turns tomato-red and
whispers, 'A little,' like he's still half-ashamed to admit it, and that's when
Cas knows for sure he's made the right call, because he wants to work Dean up
to this – hell, he needs to work himself up to this – and jumping right to the
endgame won't do either one of them any favours, even and especially when it's
all he knows how to do. So Cas curls closer to him, kisses the corner of Dean's
mouth, and murmurs, 'God, that's hot,' which seems to be the right thing to
say; Dean chases his lips and kisses back, and they settle into each other,
slow and easy, like stoking a fire from embers.
Dean cups the back of Cas's neck, fingers toying with the curls of his hair,
and Cas runs his fingertips over the smooth, warm skin of Dean's ribs. It's
both less and infinitely more than anything he's ever done, and for the first
time, he understands that, while sex can be intimate as well as impersonal,
it's also not the only form of intimacy that matters. Cas wants to be close to
Dean, and what they did in the shower is definitely part of that, but this is,
too – just this, where they lie together in Cas's bed, building trust through
touches that ask questions rather than demanding answers, and without quite
meaning to, Cas asks, softly, 'Stay?'
Dean laughs, one palm curled possessively over the curve of Cas's ass, and
says, 'Does it look like I'm going anywhere?' And then, before Cas can answer,
he leans in and sucks a gentle kiss at the top of his throat. 'I'm staying,
Cas,' he murmurs. 'And not just tonight.'
And Castiel believes him.
 
                                       *
                                        
In the end, they settle for stroking each other off, which is never going to
get old, then spend the next few hours curled up in bed, watching movies on
Cas's old laptop. Dean texts his mom to let her know Cas is OK and that he's
staying over, and receives permission to do so – which, under the
circumstances, both is and isn't surprising – and then they order pizza. Dean
pays for it himself, and Cas doesn't argue, though he makes a point of setting
a few slices aside for Alfie. They eat in Cas's room, even though they have the
house to themselves, and start on The Winter Soldier, arguing the whole way
through about romance in the MCU.
'You can't argue with Stucky,' says Dean, a little thrilled to be able to voice
an opinion he's previously had to keep to himself. 'I mean, come on. Their
entire relationship is like Brokeback with superheroes.'
Cas snorts, resting his head on Dean's shoulder. 'I can argue with it plenty.
Steve Rogers is totally boning Tony Stark.'
'Oh, yeah, becausethat makes sense.' Dean rolls his eyes, shifting his arm to
pull Cas closer. 'Stark is with Banner, and Pepper is dating Black Widow.'
'Pepper and Natasha, I grant you. But Stark and Banner are science bros, not
boyfriends.'
'Can't they be both?'
'They could be, but they're not.'
'Because Iron Man is dating Captain America.'
'Right.'
'Did you even watch The First Avenger?' Dean asks, slightly incredulous. 'It's
right there in the script! Bucky Barnes calls Steve a punk, which was forties
slang for a gay dude. He uses it like a pet name. How much more explicit can
you get?'
'Apart from them actually kissing on camera?' Cas asks, wryly.
Dean grins. 'Apart from that.'
Cas goes quiet a moment. 'I get Steve with Bucky, but not with the Winter
Soldier.'
'Huh?' Dean blinks at him, puzzled. 'What's the difference? They're literally
the same person.'
'They're not, though,' Cas insists. 'Bucky was charming and fun and kind, but
the Soldier is basically broken. He doesn't even remember himself, and Steve
Rogers is this perfect guy, you know? It's like, the whole point of Captain
America. So why the hell would he settle for someone that damaged?' And he
shrugs, like it's no big deal; like he hasn't just missed a fundamental part of
Cap's personality.
Dean opens his mouth to protest – then stops, looking slowly between Cas, who's
absently chewing a fingernail, and the laptop screen, where the Winter Soldier
is shuddering through a torture-mindwipe session. Oh, he thinks, heart
twisting, and says, as carefully as he can, 'Good people don't care what's been
done to somebody, Cas. They care about who you are.'
'Yeah, but –' Cas says, then breaks off, looking from Dean to the movie and
back again, like he's just had the same epiphany. He licks his lips and says,
tentatively, 'It's possible I might be projecting.'
'You're not broken, Cas.'
'And you're not Captain America,' Cas snaps, flustered, but there's no heat in
it, and Dean doesn't take the least bit of offence.
'Obviously,' he says, dropping a kiss on Cas's temple. 'I'm way hotter.'
'Obviously,' Cas agrees, and the total lack of sarcasm wrongfoots Dean for a
good three seconds, because wait, what?
'Are you serious right now?'
'What?' Cas blinks at him, utterly guileless. 'Dean, do you even own a mirror?'
'Yeah, but Chris Evans –'
'Chris Evans is hot,' says Cas, with sober authority, 'but he's not you. Plus
and also, he's never bought me pizza.'
Dean is actually lost for words, but Cas doesn't seem to mind. He grins
happily, like he's won a point, snuggles back into Dean's side, and goes back
to watching the movie.
The silence lasts all of a minute before Dean smiles, presses a kiss to Cas's
ear, and murmurs, 'Hey, Bucky. Want a blowjob?'
Castiel chokes on air.
'Is that a yes?' Dean asks, slyly.
'You really want to?'
'I really do.'
'God yes,' Cas breathes, the last syllable vanishing as Dean leans over and
kisses him. They're both still in their boxers, and rather than lie lengthwise
down the bed, Dean guides Cas to the edge and then gets on his knees, heart
pounding in anticipation. He's gone down on girls before, and had them go down
on him in turn, but he's never tried with a guy before, and the prospect of
doing it now, with Cas, is stupidly arousing. Fingers trembling, Dean pulls
Cas's boxers down, drinking in the sight of him.
And then he leans in, looking breathlessly up at Cas, and starts to suck his
cock.
It's an amateur effort; even Dean knows that. His jaw isn't used to stretching
that way, it's sloppy, and he's not quite sure what to do with his hands when
he isn't bringing them into play, but that doesn't stop it from being the
single hottest thing he's ever done. It's not just the gorgeous noises he draws
from Cas, although – holy Christ –they certainly help; it's that the act itself
turns him on in a wholly unexpected way, and when Cas runs a hand through his
hair and gives an experimental tug, he outright moans, trying to take him
deeper, faster.
'Holy fuck,' Cas gasps, 'Dean, I'm –'
He comes before he can finish the sentence, and Dean surprises them both by
swallowing. It actually doesn't taste too bad, and as he pulls off, he grins up
at Cas and says, in a dazed, fucked-out voice, 'Oh, I liked that.'
'You liked it?' Castiel pants, not sounding much better. He flops back,
laughing. 'Sweet Jesus, there is a god.'
'Blasphemy will get you everywhere,' Dean mumbles, and climbs back onto the
bed, pulling Cas against his chest. 'As will reciprocal orgasms.'
'Nice use of the word reciprocal,' Cas smirks, reaching down to stroke him.
Dean groans, arching into the touch. 'The SATs would be proud.'
He's so turned on, he doesn't last long, coming hard across his chest with a
flick of Cas's wrist. Somehow, Dean finds the energy to stumble out to the
bathroom and clean himself up, and when he comes back, Cas is waiting for him
under the covers, smiling as he proffers the last of the pizza. The Winter
Soldier is still playing, and as Dean slides in beside him, he's overwhelmed
with a feeling of perfect contentment. Screw Roy and his dad, and fuck what
anyone else might say about him being bi: Castiel Novak is worth it, and if it
takes him the rest of his life, Dean's going to make sure that his boyfriend
knows it, too.
 
***** Chapter 15 *****
'So,' says Alfie, grinning at Cas over dinner on Sunday night. 'Your boyfriend
seems nice.'
'Yeah,' says Cas, who's too pleased at Alfie's acceptance of Dean to resent
discussing his love life with his eight-year-old brother. Instead, he smiles.
'He really is.'
Dean only left an hour ago, Mary having drawn the line at letting him stay a
third night in a row. As supportive as she's being, the Saturday sleepover was
only allowed on the condition that they went to the free clinic together on
Sunday, which made for a weirdass sort of quasi-date, but it still wasn't even
half as awkward as Cas had worried it would be, and they made out in the park
afterwards, so all in all, he's calling it a win.
(Alfie, thank god, spent the day at Kevin's, thereby sparing Cas the necessity
of lying about their plans. Bless the Tran family forever and ever, amen, and
especially Linda Tran, who seems to want to kidnap Alfie for the express
purpose of feeding him up and helping him do his homework. Cas wants to buy the
woman a fucking fruit basket.)
'You guys hung out all weekend?' Alfie asks – innocently, but with a touch of
curiously scrunched eyebrow that suggests Cas is going to have to give him The
Talk sooner rather than later, especially if he plans on having Dean over again
while Alfie's there, too.
'Yeah,' says Cas, and taps Alfie's plate with his knife. 'Hey, eat your
carrots. Vegetables are important.'
'Carrots suck,' Alfie grumbles, but he eats them anyway. He chews, swallows,
then says, with unusual hesitance, 'Cas?'
'Mm?'
'You're OK, right?'
Castiel freezes, a portion of chicken breast halfway to his mouth. He looks at
Alfie, whose eyes are huge and worried and loving, and slowly sets down his
fork. He wants to deflect the question, ask why he's asking, shrug it off,
something, but he just can't do it. Not any more.
Hoarsely, he says, 'I wasn't. Not for a while. But I – I'm getting better. I am
better, now. And maybe I'll still have bad days or whatever, but yeah, Alfie,
I'm OK.' And as he says it, he realises it's true, and exhales, suddenly
lighter. 'I'm OK.'
Without warning, Alfie leaps up out of his chair, ducks around the table and
all but tackles Cas sideways, he hugs him so hard. Cas lets out a startled
laugh – goddamit, he's notgoing to cry – and says, 'Hey, what –'
'I love you,' Alfie whispers, almost inaudible against his shirt. 'You're a
good brother. You're mybig brother, and I love you, OK?'
'Love you too, monster,' Cas mumbles, heart twisting in his chest.
He doesn't cry. He doesn't.
And then Alfie lets go, and grins at him, and they finish their dinner, and Cas
chuffs him about brushing his teeth before bedtime, and Alfie moans about how
the cheap toothpaste tastes like feet, which Cas privately agrees with but
can't admit because dental hygiene is important, Alfie, but somehow it all gets
done, and then Cas is alone in his room, in his bed, which feels so much
emptier than it ever has before, because Dean isn't there, and that's when it
hits him, for maybe the first time in his life: I have a future. It's like
opening a box inside himself he didn't know was there, and finding it full of
treasures. One day, not too far from now, he's going to finish school. He'll
get a real job, or go to college, or maybe travel a bit, and yeah, he'll miss
Alfie like hell, but he doesn't have to stay in this town forever, he doesn't
have to sell himself, there are still good people in the world, and maybe –
just maybe – Castiel gets to call one of them his.
Shaking, smiling, brave with love, he shoves back the covers, pads over to his
desk, pulls out a battered Spirex notebook, and starts to write.
The end product takes over two hours. He has to keep stopping to get his
thoughts in order, has to shake the nerves from hands that cramp against the
desk-edge, around the pen; has to rewrite the whole thing a second time,
because the first draft has so many crossings out, and then again, a third
time, because he made even more changes. Typing would be easier, but this is a
promise he's making, a spell he's crafting, an augury and an omen: it has to be
tangible, real, and when he's done, he signs it, dates it, kisses it, and then
– heart beating wildly – he pricks the pad of his thumb with a safety-pin, lets
a drop of blood well up, and presses his mark there, too, because Jesus, he
means it, he means every damn word of it, and if that's not the most terrifying
fucking thing in the world – if that's not worth a little blood – he doesn't
know what is.
And then he tears the page from the notebook, folds it three times, and tucks
it away in his copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy for safekeeping.
Dazed and happy, Cas climbs back into bed, staring up at his ceiling like he's
never seen it before. His phone buzzes on the nightstand: a two-word text from
Dean.
Miss you.
Castiel smiles and hits reply.
I miss you, too.
 
                                       *
                                        
Monday morning, Dean meets Cas a block from school, his stomach knotted with
nerves. They talked about it over the weekend, how neither of them wants to
hide that they're together, and screw what the rumour mill thinks. Cas's
bruises are fading, but still visible; his ears are pierced with safety pins,
his black jeans are ripped, and his dark blue hoodie is frayed at the hems.
He's slouching against a telegraph pole, looking faintly bored, but as soon as
he spots Dean, his face lights up, and Dean forgets to be anxious, because
Castiel is the single most gorgeous thing he's ever seen.
'Hey,' he says, grinning stupidly.
'Hey yourself,' says Cas, and pulls him in for a kiss. Dean presses him up
against the pole, hands cradling his face, and god, this is real, they're doing
this, and the world can go fuck itself.
When they finally pull apart, Dean drops his hands and smooths them over Cas's
hips. 'Ready to make a scene?' he asks, a little breathlessly.
Cas laughs, and the sound is music. 'Baby, I was born ready.'
And together, they start to walk.
The rumours outpace them in minutes, and Dean doesn't care. By the time they're
walking through the school gates – Cas's arm around his waist, Dean's arm
around his shoulder – there's practically a crowd waiting. One or two kids have
cellphones out, taking photos. Dean just grins at everyone, daring them to
comment, and to his surprise and astonishment, most people grin back. They pass
Bela, and she raises one eyebrow, gives Cas a considering look, and then smiles
her approval; several of his soon-to-be-ex-teammates gawk, looking shaken or
disgusted, but a couple just look surprised, and for every offended student,
there's five who look cheered, or impressed, or some other flavour of don't-
give-a-shit-but-hey-it's-a-free-country, and Cas does this funny little huff-
snort, like he doesn't know whether to be amused or insulted, and bumps their
heads together.
'What the fuck, Winchester?'
It's Roy's voice, loud and angry. They share a look, an eyeroll, a sigh, and as
they turn to face him, Cas reaches up to take Dean's hand and lace their
fingers together.
'You got a problem, Roy?' Dean asks, and every student in earshot goes dead
quiet. 'Also, before you answer that, you should know I'm quitting the team
today. Not because I've got a boyfriend now –' a ripple of murmurs at the word,
'– but because you guys are a bunch of bullying asshats, and I kinda hate
spending time with you. No offence.'
'Yeah, like we'd want a fucking fag on the team,' Roy sneers, ignoring the
background laughter at Dean's comment, but it's clear he's feeling wrongfooted,
and Dean is glad all over again that he and Cas already planned this out. He
doesn't want to play football any more, but he doesn't want people to think his
teammates made him quit because of Cas, or that the school did, either. This
way, even if everyone still thinks he was jumping before he was pushed, at
least nobody can argue that it wasn't on his terms, or say that Roy spooked him
into it. From the corner of his eye, he sees at a skinny kid getting the whole
thing on video, and for once, he's glad about it.
Cas laughs, a gravelly rasp, and says, 'You spend your free time wrestling with
guys in tight pants, then showering with them afterwards. Naked. Pretend all
you want, but the no homo train has well and truly left the fucking station.'
More laughter; Roy goes red in the face and storms towards them, and Dean's on
the brink of moving to defend them both when, of all people, Meg Masters steps
straight into Roy's path and says, in a voice pitched to carry, 'My dad's a
lawyer, asshole. Touch either one of them, and I'll get you charged with a hate
crime.'
And that brings Roy up short, because Meg might be a weird kid, she might be a
stoner punk like Castiel who hangs out under the bleachers and spends more time
outside the principal's office than in gym class, but everyone knows her dad is
a prosecutor and scary as all hell; other lawyers call him Azazel, like he's a
literal fucking demon, and Roy might be stupid, but the only unfair fights he
likes are the ones in his favour. The crowd isn't with him, there's cellphones
everywhere, and Meg just stands there, hands on her hips, and stares him down
like she's queen of the world.
'Whatever,' Roy growls, and stalks away to the sound of actual cheering.
Dean grips Cas's hand, and tries not to melt when his boyfriend kisses his
cheek and murmurs, 'See? That wasn't so bad.'
Meg picks that moment to turn and look them over, much the way Bela did. She
smirks at Cas, who returns the favour, then pins Dean with a smile like a
cutthroat razor.
'Don't get me wrong,' she says, 'Clarence here is a weed-stealing shit with
terrible taste in music, but if you break his heart, I'll break your balls.
Capiche?'
'Capiche,' says Dean, fervently.
'Why, Meg,' Cas drawls, 'I didn't know you cared.'
Meg rolls her eyes. 'Shut up, Clarence.' But she flashes her dimples all the
same, then strides away, hair swishing in victory.
Confrontation over, the crowd starts to dissipate. 'You all right?' Cas asks,
softly.
Dean thinks of his dad, and he thinks of his mom. He thinks of Sam and Jo and
Alfie, of Bela and Meg; of falling asleep in Cas's arms, a kiss on the nape of
his neck. He knows it's going to be tough at times, but up until now, his life
has been pretty damn easy, and all he's got to show for it is a bunch of
asshole ex-friends and a couple of football trophies. What he wants with Cas is
hard, but it's real, and it's theirs, and he wouldn't change it for anything.
'Never better,' he says, and kisses him.
And damned if it isn't true.
 
***** Epilogue *****
                                Ten Years Later
                                        
Dean paces the apartment, sweating into his shirt. Cas has been weird all week
– all month, if Dean's honest with himself – and given that it's their
anniversary tomorrow, he's starting to freak the hell out. Granted, their
anniversary is always a little odd, given the deeply fucked-up circumstances
under which they first started dating, which is why they decided years ago to
celebrate on the day they came out at school together, and not on the day they
actually hooked up. But even by his usual standards – and Dean's had a decade
of ups and downs in which to learn his partner's eccentricities – Cas has been
acting strangely. Not snappish, the way he gets when he's stressed at work, and
not indrawn, the way he gets when he's worried or triggered, but distractable,
elusive, hesitant.
The last time he got this way was just over five years ago, when Dean was
offered – and accepted – his current job. Cas, not wanting to move halfway
across the country in the last year of his degree and terrified that they
wouldn't survive long-distance, dealt with the crisis by breaking up with him,
pre-empting the most miserable six months of Dean's life. The fact that Cas
subsequently showed up on his doorstep less than twelve hours after taking his
final exam, red-eyed and swaying from exhaustion, to declare that he was a
fucking idiot and please, please could they try again does nothing to reassure
him now. That six months without Cas nearly killed him, and that was back when
he could still pretend that it only hurt so much because he didn't know
anything else; that maybe, if he just screwed enough people, he'd somehow get
over it.
But Dean knows better now. He'll do anything, say anything, to make the other
man stay – god, he can't breathe at the thought of losing Cas, and what if it's
all his fault? What if the signs have been there for months, and he's just now
catching up? What if he's been so wrapped up with work and his own petty
bullshit that he's been letting Cas slide back into a dark place, what if he
hasn't been affectionate enough, what if –
The apartment door clicks open, and Cas walks in, looking pale and tortured.
His dark hair sticks up the way it only does when he's been running his fingers
through it, over and over; his trenchcoat is rumpled, the suit underneath it
the same one he's worn all week, despite the fact that it's Dean's and doesn't
even fit him to begin with.
'Hi,' says Dean, a lump in his throat.
'Hey,' says Cas. He sounds utterly wrecked, and it's only when he stretches out
his hand that Dean realises he's holding something, a crumpled, faded square of
paper, which – what? He stares at it, awash with confusion, because it's
clearly notebook paper, not a receipt or anything important like that, and no
matter how pissed at him Cas might be, there's no fucking way his partner of
ten years is going to end things by passing him a note, like they're
middleschoolers at summer camp.
Fingers trembling, Dean takes the paper, and when Cas rasps at him, 'Read it.
Please,' he's helpless to disobey. It's a letter, crumpled and stained, written
in the tight, clean script that's unmistakeable Cas's – but not, he realises
with a jolt, the Cas standing opposite him. Cas-now writes with a lighter hand,
his serifs soft rather than spiked. This letter is the handiwork of Cas-then,
his teenage self, and when Dean checks the top lefthand corner, his mouth goes
dry to see it's dated exactly ten years ago, to the day.
'Cas,' he whispers, awed, and starts to read.
 
                                       *
                                        
Dear Dean,
Today is the first day of the rest of my life.
That's such a cliché, but it's true. On Friday I wanted to die, and you kept me
alive. Tonight Alfie hugged me and told me he loved me, that I was a good
brother, and without you, that wouldn't have happened, because I wouldn't have
been here. I've done so many ugly things, Dean, but you don't see me that way.
You make me feel clean and right and worthy, like I have choices in life; like
I can grow up and leave this place, the way my mother never did.
Like I can take you with me.
I'm seventeen. We both are. And I know, I know how crazy this sounds, I know
I'm all fucked up, and I know I can't make who I am dependent on you, because
that's not fair to either of us, but I also know I love you. I think maybe I
always have, deep down, since the first time I ever saw you; since maybe even
before then, if that's possible. And tomorrow, you're going to be brave for me,
which means tonight, I can be brave for you.
Life is hard. I know that. Hell, I barely know anything else. I know people
break up all the time, I know most high school relationships don't last more
than a month, and you deserve someone so perfect, Dean, I'm not even sure I can
ever be that person, but I want to try, because I want you. Just you. And maybe
we'll break up in a week, and I'll feel like the biggest dork and probably burn
this letter, and maybe we'll break up right after graduation, or in college,
and maybe we'll break up more than once, but you gave me my life back, Dean,
you gave me my brother and tomorrow and all the tomorrows after it, and I want
to share them with you.
So I'm going to keep this letter. I'm giving us a decade: ten years to figure
out if we fit in each other's lives or not, if I can be someone you'd want to
spend the rest of your life with. Because that's what I want, Dean. I just want
you, forever and always, and I know how that sounds, me writing it now, but I
feel, tonight –
I feel like I have a future. A real one, not just an endless now, and assuming
we get that far together – assuming you still want me, that we find our way
back to each other – I want you to know that, whatever's happened between my
tonight and whenever you are now, I've always loved you, and I always will. If
you're reading this, it's because I've spent ten years holding onto something I
wrote in our first week together, because I want to believe – I hope – I have
faith – that what I'm feeling now is real. That you're the best thing that's
ever happened to me. That we're worth the risk. That maybe I do deserve to grow
up, and be happy, and have a life with you, and because, if there's even the
tiniest chance I'm right, I want there to be proof of it, that Iknew. I want to
be able to look back on tonight and think that, however many mistakes I've
made, doubting us wasn't one of them.
So, in this future, we're twenty-seven years old, and being of sound mind and
body, with the blessing of my seventeen-year-old self, I, Castiel James Novak,
am asking you, Dean Winchester, to marry me.
Please say yes.
 
                                       *
                                        
Cheeks wet with tears, Dean finally wrenches his gaze from the letter and back
to Cas, who looks like he's poised on some agonising precipice between hope and
heartbreak.
'I'm sorry I've been distant,' Cas says, his voice gone raw. 'I'd kept it so
long, read it so many times, I wasn't sure if it was creepy or inappropriate or
just plain bad, but I still wanted to give it to you, I wanted you to know –'
'Yes,' Dean croaks.
Cas's voice cracks on the echo. 'Yes?'
'God, you dork, of course it's yes, I love you so damn much, yes –'
And then they're kissing, hard and sweet so fucking perfect, his heart almost
hurts with happiness. He drops the letter, takes hold of Cas, and pulls him
straight to the bedroom, kissing every inch of his husband-to-be, until both of
them come undone, over and over, crying and laughing, I love you, I love you, I
love you.
Dean never lets go, and Cas never wants him to.
They frame the letter.
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