stardust in our eyes
Title: stardust in our eyes
Author: sa_kun
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/pairings: Castiel/Dean, Sam
Rating: Teen and up
Word Count: 8,3k
Summary: Castiel thinks Dean is probably the most attractive man he has ever met in his life.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Author’s Notes: College!AU. Contains homophobia and transphobia.[ Also?]Castiel is trans*, female to male (ftm). In my eyes, Cas is demisexual in this, but that's really up to you. If you would rather read elsewhere, this fic is also up on a AO3.
This is for runawaydreamer, because she's always awesome and she beta'd this.
The first time Castiel sees his roommate, he’s sure there’s been a mistake. Castiel’s roommate is the epitome - the very spitting image - of the type of person he wants to get away from.
‘Bully’ is simply the easiest, most encompassing word he prefers to use.
Dean Winchester is loud. He has a love for all things sexual that involve women and is not shy about expressing it. He listens to mullet rock and claims it to be the very finest music ever produced. He eats unhealthy food. He drives a black muscle car and wears a leather jacket that doesn’t quite fit him. He parties every weekend. He goes running, which goes against everything about the person he likes to portray himself as, but he does it anyway because it’s something he’s used to doing, he says, with his dad and whiny-ass little brother.
Castiel started the college life late, but so did Dean, and he thinks that is the main reason they are rooming together.
--
Castiel hates having a roommate.
It means always sleeping with an eye open, always keeping large sweaters and cardigans and hoodies by his bed in case Dean should suddenly wake him in the night. It means smuggling his binder in with his clothes into the bathroom when gets dressed in the morning.
It means being constantly afraid that Dean will notice something, will somehow see that he and Castiel are not biologically the same.
It means being terrified that Dean will attack him with words and fists and feet.
Dean, who is uncouth and brash, who talks too loud and wide about whatever strikes his fancy; whose father is an ex-marine who taught him how to shoot guns, use knives and fight hand-to-hand combat.
Castiel, of course, thinks Dean is probably the most attractive man he has ever met in his life.
--
“Hey, dude,” Dean says when Castiel opens the door to their room. He’s not alone - not an entirely unusual ordeal, though usually his company is female and less composed.
“Hello,” the other boy says.
“This is Sammy,” Dean says. “My brother. Cas, my roomie.”
“Yes,” Castiel says, because he has social skills like no other. “Hello.”
The smile Dean’s brother offers him is more of a grimace. “My name is actually Sam, but Dean refuses to accept I’m not a chubby twelve-year-old anymore.”
“I’m Castiel. I don’t mind.”
Any variation of his name, the name that he chose, is infinitely better than the one his parents gave him, after all.
“So, we were gonna catch a movie tonight. You wanna come?”
It’s no secret that Castiel doesn’t have much of a social life or that Dean will on occasion invite him along. The question may have been placed as a suggestion or an invitation, but Castiel has learned the hard way that refusing to accept is far less pleasant for him. After all, at the end of the day he still has to live with Dean. Hell may not have the kind of fury a scorned woman supposedly does, but Shakespeare had clearly never come across a spurned Dean Winchester, so Castiel feels inclined to let that slide.
“I am not a fan of a lot of movies,” he says anyway, which, of course, Dean already knows.
“Sammy’s pick,” Dean says. “If I had ovaries, they’d be bleeding, and I’m not suffering alone. You’re coming, Cas.”
“Dean!” Sam snaps.
“What? You always pick never-ending dramas with way too much cheesy romance and shit.”
“And you always pick horror movies that premiered forty years ago,” Castiel says, heart pounding. He knows, of course, that Dean isn’t picking on him when he lets blatant sexism color how he expresses himself, but sometimes it’s hard not to let it get to him. “If it were up to me-”
“I let you pick one time,” Dean mutters. “And I had to sit and watch some three hour long flick where not one dude spoke English. Not one! You’ve had your movie-picking privileges revoked for the rest of eternity, buddy.”
--
After that day, Castiel is suddenly seeing Sam everywhere. Most notably, of course, is at the LGBTQ headquarters of the school. It leaves Castiel feeling a little bit stunned, a little bit surprised, because Sam is Dean’s younger brother. He had noticed how different they were, of course, but he’d also noticed how close and inseparable. He wants to ask why Sam comes to the meetings, but it would be rude, so he holds back; he wouldn’t want anyone asking him.
Castiel’s family was mostly cut from the same cloth, with few but very noticeable exceptions. He can’t help but wonder what kind of cloth Sam and Dean are cut from.
“Hey, Cas,” Sam greets him, as he has done at their every meeting now since the force that is Dean Winchester brought their worlds into contact. Castiel doesn’t entirely mind; Sam is nice.
“Hello.”
“Dean never told me you came here, too,” Sam says.
Castiel blinks. “I wasn’t aware I had to tell him?”
“No, no, of course not, dude.” Sam is all wide eyes and blustering innocence. It’s a refreshing sight, after living with Dean. “I just, he talks about you a lot, so… I don’t know. Never mind.”
“He talks about me?”
“You live together,” Sam points out. “Yeah, of course he does. You’re the only friend he has that, well. Let’s just say you’re the only friend he has who doesn’t want to get into his pants and leave it at that, okay?”
“What do you mean?” Castiel’s heart is speeding up, because it’s been years since he had a friend, and here Sam is, claiming that Dean considers him his friend. It’s startling and new. And terrifying. It’s something he finds he wants with a desperation that surprises him.
Sam shrugs. “Just that a lot of the time people hang around Dean because they think he’s hot, and they don’t really care about him as a person, you know?”
“People are shallow,” Castiel agrees, and it’s something he has experienced first-hand far too many times.
Sam laughs, but it’s not necessarily a happy sound. “The first time I went to a GSA club in high school- Well, there were a lot of first times because we moved around a lot. Anyway, at one place they wouldn’t let me join because I was too tall, like that has anything to do with anything, you know? Or because of Dean, or my dad, or just tons of different little reasons that basically had nothing to do with me.”
“I see,” Castiel says, slanting a glance at Sam. “You are rather tall.”
“I know, right?” Sam grins. “Rubs Dean like you wouldn’t believe.”
“He does have an overabundance of testosterone.”
--
“I saw your brother today,” Castiel says later that night. Dean grunts, so Castiel knows he’s listening, that he’s still awake. “At the GSA.”
“Yeah, he goes there.” There’s the sound of shifting, bedsprings creaking. “Didn’t know you were one of those, too.”
“One of those?” If there is derision and offense in his tone, then Dean brought it on himself.
“You know.” Dean yawns. “Freedom fighters. Rebels. Like, Sam is totally Luke Skywalker in this scenario, but I’m Han Solo ‘cause I’m too cool for this school.”
“Oh. Is he-?”
“Dunno. Didn’t ask.”
“How very marine of you, Dean.”
“Hey, I read that it wasn’t cool, okay? Like, you don’t ask ‘cause telling people is part of the whole deal, right? So if Sammy’s got something to say, then I’ll be there. Until then? I’m good with waiting.”
“You’re a good brother,” Castiel says, heart pounding.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
--
At Christmas, Dean stays but so does Castiel. Sam spends most nights sleeping on a spare mattress by Dean’s bed. The crowding freaks Castiel out, but he’s not heartless enough to throw anyone out on Christmas, much less Dean’s brother, someone who has been weaseling his way into something that might be called friendship as well.
Castiel can’t remember the last time he had friends, and it makes him panic a little, because the last time he did, it didn’t end in a way that made him want to try again, somewhere else with someone entirely different.
But now there are two people he needs to hide from, two people he needs to maintain a front with at all times. The first time he takes his clothes to change in the bathroom, Sam frowns at him. Dean slaps his brother over the head, though, just as Castiel is passing him by, and nothing is said of it.
Occasionally, Dean’s remarkable sense of insight surprises Castiel. He thinks maybe it shouldn’t. Dean is astute; he’s a people person.
--
They eat pizza on Christmas Day, have pie and too much ice-cream, eat too much candy and potato chips. The TV is looping one movie after another, and Castiel feels remarkably content. They exchange cheap gifts, drink too much eggnog and stay up far too late.
It’s the happiest Castiel remembers being in a long time.
--
“How come you don’t date, man?”
It’s the day after Valentine’s Day. Dean, who spent all of yesterday ‘prowling’, is now spread-eagled on his bed, all loose limbs and contentment. There are times when Castiel is incredibly jealous over the ease Dean has with his own body.
“I have no interest in dating.”
“For real, or just ‘cause you’re a hermit?”
Castiel glares at Dean, but Dean’s eyes are closed. “I might admit that there has never been occasion,” Castiel says after a long enough pause. “But it’s not a lie that I have no particular interest in it, either.”
“So, like, no one ever catches your eye?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dean. Of course I notice attractive people. I just don’t feel an urge to jump their bones.”
“Ever?”
“Why are we playing Twenty Questions, Dean?”
Dean shrugs. “Just something we talked about in class. But, Cas, man, I’m your friend, so yeah, sometimes I wonder about you.”
“I’m content.”
“Now, or always?”
“Now,” Castiel acknowledges, because it took him a long time to come to this point. “I am…starting to become optimistic. About my future. I’m…more comfortable in my skin now. It’s a good feeling.”
“That’s good, man.”
Castiel raises an eyebrow and wonders if it truly is. “Last time I was optimistic about something, my family threw me out.”
Dean sits up so fast the motion almost blurs. “What?! Why?”
“I told them something they didn’t want to hear.” Castiel clears his throat, uncomfortable with the intensity in Dean’s eyes, all of it focused on him. “And I refused to be brainwashed into something I’m not.”
“What? You said you were gay and they wanted to send you off to bible school?”
Castiel looks away. He picks at the covers on his bed. Incidentally, they were one of the more useful Christmas presents: new bed sheets. Dean’s taste in linens is not the best, but they fill their purpose regardless. Although why he would want to sleep with Batman is beyond him when Mystique’s ambiguity is so appealing, or the masculinity of Wolverine so compelling… Which of course has no bearing on sheets, but that isn’t really the point.
“No. I’m not gay, I don’t think. People catch my eye regardless of gender. I like hands or eyes or freckles, or the slope of shoulders, or the curve of hips. But I don’t define myself as gay or straight.”
“So, bi?”
“No, Dean. I’m not overly fond of labels. I have too many of them as it is.”
Dean sighs and shrugs. “If they got me tossed out, I don’t suppose I’d be thrilled with them, either. I’m not asking, okay? ‘Course, I’m gonna be wondering why, but-”
“I told them I was a boy, that I wasn’t their daughter and had never been,” Castiel says, and it’s almost offhanded enough to make it sound as if he does not care, when it’s the very opposite that’s true. He feels all color drain from his face, and then he’s got his head between his knees, trying desperately to breathe because he didn’t mean to tell Dean that. He meant to say that his family had disagreed with his worldviews, with his ideals and way of life and how Castiel didn’t want to follow in his family’s footsteps as bigots and homophobes and he hadn’t meant to tell Dean that.
“Cas? Cas, man, hey, you gotta calm down and breathe, okay? Breathe for me-”
There is an endless loop of Dean’s voice, steady and calm and low, even as his hands are frantic on Castiel’s back and shoulders.
When Castiel can finally breathe, the room is shrouded in shadow and Dean is sitting behind him, chest pressed close to Castiel’s back, still talking.
“Dean,” he says, and Dean starts.
“Cas? Hey, shit, you totally freaked me out-”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, dude, you don’t have anything to be sorry-”
“People look at me differently when they know,” Castiel says, subdued. He leans his head back until it’s resting on Dean’s shoulder, but he turns his face away because he isn’t sure if he can stand looking Dean in the eye right now, doesn’t know if he can be that brave. “I didn’t want that to be you.”
Dean is quiet a moment, then he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, man.”
“Dean…”
“No, seriously. Like, your parents desperately wanted a daughter so they forced you into dresses and stuff? I’ve seen documentaries about that on TV. Like, a mom really wants someone to follow in her footsteps, so she makes her son wear frills and stuff. Like she can change a dude into a chick.”
Castiel just breathes. In a way that is exactly the truth, but it’s also not the whole truth, or even strictly speaking the “right” truth. “No,” he says. “It’s essentially the same but I was born biologically wrong, Dean. To them I was a daughter, but it was wrong.”
“So it’s more a case of ‘dude looks like a lady’?”
“No. More a case of me actually being a man but nothing is right.”
Dean is quiet for a moment. “It’s not like cross-dressing, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
“What’s a transvestite? I mean, like that British dude. Izzard?”
“What it looks like: someone who enjoys dressing up as a member of the opposite sex.”
One of Dean’s hands come up then, knuckles sliding along Castiel’s jaw. Castiel flinches a little, but Dean ignores it. “How does this work, then? You have stubble; I’ve seen you shave.”
“Hormone treatments.”
“Oh. Okay.”
--
To his credit, Dean doesn’t really look at Castiel differently after that. He touches him less, though, and Castiel would be grateful if it wasn’t also a change. There are times when they are talking and Dean, being Dean, will say something that might be derogatory about women, then stops himself with a strange expression on his face, glances at Castiel, says sorry and changes the subject.
It grates on Castiel.
But Dean also never tries to insinuate that he is in any way wrong, which is both refreshing and exhilarating, and Dean is still forcing him to be social every so often, so nothing major actually changes.
--
“Oh, dude,” Dean says one day, tearing into the room and folding Castiel into a really tight, hard and long hug.
It’s not something Castiel would say he is at all used to. Dean might be rather free and physical with his affection, but he rarely hugs anyone.
“Dean?”
“Shit, man, I had no idea,” Dean says to Castiel’s shoulder. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again, okay? Hell, I’m putting a leash on you and you’re just gonna have to deal with it, okay? Sonofabitch.”
“Um,” Castiel says, because he isn’t sure what the proper response is. He awkwardly pats Dean’s back, then tries to wriggle away. It’s a moot point, because the more he tries to escape, the tighter Dean clings. It is a little bit like being caught in quicksand, he imagines. “What’s going on, Dean?”
“Sammy picked the movie,” Dean says. “Fucking ‘Boys Don’t Cry’.”
“Oh.”
“You seen it?”
Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t like to torture myself,” he says, which is true, but he also read the reports, the news articles, the statements of the people involved in the true story that hid behind the movie. After, he could never justify watching a production that made its money by exploiting the pain of real people. “Dean, can you let go?”
“No.”
“This is uncomfortable.”
“Don’t care. Fucking deal, man.” For a moment, Dean squeezes harder, but then he does let go, only to hold Castiel at arm’s length by the shoulders. “How the fuck can you stand to room with me?”
Castiel averts his eyes, because deflection is an acceptable form of dealing with all matters concerning Dean Winchester. “It’s not so bad,” he says.
“Lying little liar,” Dean counters, eyes narrowed as he ducks after Castiel to force eye contact. Sometimes Castiel does hate Dean, but only a little.
“I hated it in the beginning,” Castiel admits, then. “I hated it. I was terrified. It was beyond awful. But you didn’t question my need to change in the bathroom, or mock me for it, or push me. You have always let me be. So I find I’m not as uncomfortable anymore. You’re a good person, Dean.”
Dean’s ears go red, which is rare enough that Castiel takes a certain amount of pleasure in it.
“Even if I dislike the way you’ve changed how you treat me.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “I haven’t-”
“When I was stressed out about classes, you used to say, ‘Man up, dude, don’t be a fucking girl about it.’ You used to call your brother a whiny little princess. You used to say I was a ‘girl’ about the way I prefer to keep my half of the room in order.” Castiel glares a little at Dean, a silent dare for him to refute the accusation. He doesn’t. “You changed.”
“I didn’t wanna offend you,” Dean says. “I mean, I went to the club you and Sammy hang out at, right, and they had all these pamphlets and shit. So maybe I read them. And they were all about not stepping on toes or crossing lines and no-go zones and don’t touch this or that, and, yeah.”
The fact that Dean would go to such lengths for Castiel is warming, but the fact that Dean still changed does infuriate him. “I have one rule, Dean, and it’s simple: treat me as you would any other person. Don’t differentiate.”
“You mean you really want me to barge in and take a leak when you’re in the shower? ‘Cause you know I can pick a lock like nobody’s business, and the bathroom door’s ridiculously easy.”
Castiel goes a little red. “I will kill you if you ever do that. Painfully.”
Dean smirks. “Noted. Just for curiosity’s sake, you gonna use the shampoo bottles or the showerhead?”
“The shower curtain rod. Then I will key your car.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “There’s no need to be mean, Cas.”
“There is every need,” Castiel counters, and maybe he’s smirking, maybe he’s enjoying messing with Dean. “Rerecord your tapes.”
--
Castiel dislikes alcohol. He doesn’t enjoy the sensation of losing control, so while he does accept Sam’s heartfelt and pleading invitation to go out to a nearby bar with him and a few others from the LGBTQ club, he refrains from drinking, even though he is old enough.
Sam isn’t, but Castiel isn’t sure if that would have stopped him if the pretty but sassy blonde who also decided to come along hadn’t declared that underage drinking is just plain stupid. Sam, he reflects, is young enough to let forces like that direct him.
Of course, when that force is Dean, there isn’t much Castiel can do to escape it, either.
“What’s the name of this place again?” Sam asks, sliding a tall glass of ice and soda over the table to Castiel. He looks contemplative as he glances around, making note of the pool tables and dartboards.
“The Hole,” Castiel says.
“Huh.”
“What?”
“I think Dean comes here?” Sam says, but he sounds amused rather than bemused. “I think I need to talk to him about riling up the wrong kind of crowd again.”
Castiel raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“Dean is a bit of a player, you know? Not, like, with people or anything, not like that, but he likes playing pool with high stakes. In a place like this? Dean’s raking in a fortune.”
“He has a lot of casual assignations.”
“Yeah, but they all know the score. Dean coming here, playing pool for money when most of the guys here bat for the home team?”
“I see.”
“My brother’s a flirt, but he doesn’t need to be an idiot about it.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t like this kind of attention, then?” Castiel asks when Sam takes to sucking on his straw, pouting and looking very mulish.
Sam suddenly looks very young. Sometimes it’s difficult to remember that Sam is one year younger than the freshmen at college usually are. “Pretty sure he’s straight. I mean, he would’ve said, right?”
Castiel makes a contemplative noise. “He compared himself as the Han Solo to your Luke Skywalker when we talked about gay rights.”
“So?”
“So, Han Solo was a rebel as well.” Castiel raises an eyebrow. “He’s your brother, though.”
Sam pouts a little. “Han Solo got the girl, though.”
“You do remember ‘the girl’ was Luke’s sister?”
--
Of course, because he’s Castiel and something almost always has to happen, he and Sam are jumped when they leave the club.
--
“No, nuh-uh,” Dean is saying before Castiel’s even managed to fully open the door. “You don’t come home ‘til the pumpkin turns back, Cinderella- Holy shit, what happened, dude!?”
So, yes, some of Dean’s less savory comments and sense of humor might have started to trickle back since their talk. Castiel isn’t sure whether or not to appreciate that yet. What he does know is that his face is bleeding, his ribs are smarting, his knuckles ache and there is something wrong with his right foot. Actually, much of everything hurts, even when Dean’s hands, gentle and sure, tip his face from side to side.
“We got ‘em good,” Sam slurs from behind Castiel. “Dude, there’s two of you. I don’t feel so good.”
“Sammy?” Dean gets Castiel to sit on his bed, then has his hands all over Sam. Sam bats at him, but he’s injured and not fast enough. “Hospital?”
“I think I have a concussion, Dean,” Sam says, and he sounds no older than five, either.
“His arm might be broken,” Castiel adds.
“Ow,” Sam says. “Dean, Dean-”
“I’m here, Sammy,” Dean says, carefully pulling up the sleeve over Sam’s right hand. “What happened?”
Sam has trouble keeping his eyes open, so Castiel clears his throat. “We left the bar early. I don’t do well with people, and the crowd was crushing me. Dean, I… We were two blocks away, and they came from nowhere.”
Dean just clenches his jaw. “How many?”
“Four.”
“Fucking cowards,” Dean spits. “We gotta take Sammy to the hospital, okay? His arm’s broken.”
--
Castiel hates hospitals. Dean manages most of the paperwork and talking that’s required, but then the nurses separate him and Sam, and Dean goes with his brother.
If Castiel still had a brother, he would have done the same.
The nurse, Williams, takes his time patching Castiel up. Williams helps him out of his jacket and coat, his shoes, socks and his trousers, calls him Castiel and is perfectly polite. He even makes the mandatory photographing that will be used as evidence - should Castiel choose to press charges - as painless as possible. He talks about how this will be reported to the police and that an officer will be by to take a statement, so Castiel shouldn’t be surprised when an officer stops by later on.
There is only a problem when Castiel refuses to remove his shirt. He is wearing a T-shirt underneath, but it’s far more naked than he feels comfortable being around strangers.
“Castiel,” Williams says. “I need to see if your ribs are broken.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re clutching your side like it hurts.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I guarantee you, there is nothing I haven’t seen before. And I wouldn’t be doing my job if I let you out of here without tending to all your wounds.”
Castiel nods, but refuses to meet Williams eyes. “Turn around,” he says, and Williams complies. It takes Castiel a long time before he can manage to unbutton his shirt and pull it off. There is still the matter of his T-shirt, though, and his binder. He can’t lift his arms over his head, his shoulder is throbbing, the ribs on his right side feel like they’re on fire and he wants to break down and cry.
This is why he hates hospitals - they’re invasive and demeaning. They force him to wear labels that don’t fit, push him into a biological slot that isn’t his.
“Castiel?”
“I can’t lift my arms.”
After a moment, Williams turns around. “Okay,” he says, then helps Castiel move into a position where Williams can slide his last barrier of defense toward the outside world off. “One more layer, huh?” Williams says, folding the T-shirt neatly and placing it on the bed next to Castiel.
“I don’t want to.”
“I’m sorry,” Williams says. “But you’re injured. The fact that you can’t comfortably lift your arms means I need to do a proper examination, okay? Lean forward again. This is probably tight and firm enough to keep your ribs in place so it doesn’t feel as bad, right?”
“Probably,” Castiel says. After that, when he sits nearly naked as Williams examines his ribs and his shoulder, down by the small of his back where he hadn’t even noticed he was injured, the bruise on his left hip, Castiel refuses to meet Williams’ eye. He keeps a hand over his chest and Williams doesn’t tell him to move it.
“There is some bruising,” Williams says. “I don’t think they’re broken, but one has been snapped slightly out of position so I’m just going to call a doctor who can fix that. It’s what causes most of the pain. Your tailbone isn’t broken, but sitting may hurt for a while.” Williams pauses. “You might find it uncomfortable and painful to wear your special shirt for a while, judging by when we removed it. It’s complicated to put on?”
“I have to pull it up,” Castiel says. “They’re designed to be formfitting.”
Williams nods. “I have to take a few pictures now. Is that okay?”
“No,” Castiel says, but he lets Williams do it anyway.
--
The doctor calls him Ms Smith and refuses to call him anything else. In response, Castiel refuses to say a word at all.
--
When Dean walks inside Castiel’s room as if he owns it, Castiel is sitting wrapped in a blanket Williams had provided for him and his clothes are in a neatly folded pile next to him.
“Hey, Cas. How you holding up?”
“I’ve been better,” he says. “How is Sam?”
“They’re keeping him for observation overnight. He’s got a concussion, but it’s not bad, and a broken wrist. The rest is just bruising.”
“I had an out of place rib.”
“Ouch.”
“My doctor is an asshole.”
“They usually are,” Dean says. “Sam’s was a total bag of dicks. Hey, it’s not our fault we need medical attention in the middle of the night, right? Don’t give us your passive-aggressive shit, man.”
“My nurse said a policeman would drop by.”
Dean nods. “Yeah. Sam, too. You gonna press charges?”
Castiel looks away. “I don’t think so.”
“Cas-”
“I’m a freak, Dean. To them, I’m not worth the paper it takes to write on; or the ink, for that matter. The doctor wouldn’t even call me by my name.”
Dean sits down next to him, but he doesn’t touch him, which Castiel is grateful for. He isn’t sure if he could take it right now. “What happened tonight, Cas?”
Castiel shrugs. “They thought we were gay. It offended them. They took action. Sam and I responded. End of story.”
“You were just walking?”
Castiel nods. “Yes. Maybe they followed us from the club. I’m not attracted to your brother, Dean.”
“No, no, that wasn’t what I-”
“I know,” Castiel says. “Can you stay?”
Dean nods. “They have Sam under observation. Don’t need me distracting them. Your dickwad doctor?”
“I want to punch him in the balls. Williams said I shouldn’t.”
“Williams?”
“My nurse. He was very understanding.”
“Is he hot at least? It sucks when the hospital doesn’t even have hot nurses.”
Castiel laughs and shakes his head, because Dean never changes. Privately, Castiel thinks that is a good thing. “He has kind eyes,” he says at last. “And warm hands.”
--
The officer knocks on the doorframe and asks for Ms Smith.
Dean looks like a perfect human question mark. “Who?” he asks.
“Ms Smith,” the officer repeats. “Dr Rogers said she was in here?”
“It’s Castiel,” Castiel says. “And I’d like it if you didn’t refer to me as anything but that.”
The officer blinks; at him, at the paper in his hand, at the sign by the door. “Huh,” he eventually says. “So, ma’am-”
“No. Castiel or nothing,” Castiel practically growls out.
“Castiel,” the officer repeats, and Castiel isn’t sure if it’s his imagination or not, but there seems to be a slight hint of mocking in his tone. “I’m Officer Caldwell. Sir?” he directs the last bit at Dean, who still looks a little confused, but now there’s a hard, cold edge underneath.
“Dean. I’m staying.”
Castiel nods, and Caldwell lets it go.
“So, Castiel, why don’t you tell me what happened tonight?”
There is a strange emphasis on his name, but Castiel ignores it. “I was walking home from a bar - the Hole? - with Sam-”
“Boyfriend?”
Castiel frowns. “No. My roommate’s brother.”
“That’s me,” Dean says, wiggling his fingers. “Dean.”
“The Hole is a gay bar, right?”
“Yes.”
“Huh. Where were you when you were attacked?”
“Two blocks away,” Castiel says, then proceeds to explain as much as he can remember. Caldwell takes notes, of course he does, but the sympathy has long since dropped from his voice.
--
After the officer is gone, Castiel is free to go. Dean looks furious, but he doesn’t tear into Caldwell the way Castiel has no doubt Dean wants to, because Castiel asked him to refrain. Instead, Dean sits on the bed as Castiel stands up and stares at his pile of clothes.
Without his binder, he feels awkward and vulnerable and fleshy, and he absolutely hates it.
“I can’t wear my binder,” Castiel says.
“Your what-now?” Dean asks, glancing down at the clothes. He catches on fairly fast, because his eyes double in size. “Oh. Shit, never mind.”
“I hate this. Dean, I hate this so much.”
Dean looks at him, just looks him in the eye until Castiel has to turn away.
“Did the doctor say-”
“He didn’t say anything. My nurse thought I might be uncomfortable, but it doesn’t matter because I can’t put it on or even take it off!” Castiel explodes. “I hate this, Dean!”
“Okay,” Dean says. “I can help you put it on. Or-”
Castiel glares. “I’m not exposing myself for your enjoyment-”
“No, no! Shit, Cas, no, not like that.” Dean stands, picks the binder out from the rest of the folded clothes. “How do you put this on?”
“I step into it,” Castiel says after a while. He can’t help but be suspicious, though, because there are almost always ulterior motives involved.
Dean nods, swallows. “Right, so, I close my eyes, you turn your back, then we just…yank it on?”
--
In the end, they don’t go through with it because Castiel’s body is already aching too much. They would have had to remove it again when they came home anyway, and Dean is planning to stay at the hospital overnight even though Sam is fine, so Castiel decides not to put it on. He does layer up, though, pulls on all his clothes and huddles in them, then accepts the keys to Dean’s car and drives home.
The next morning, Castiel puts on two sports bras and pretends that they’re enough. He dresses carefully, chooses clothes he knows are too large on him but that help him pass.
Castiel reaches the hospital by nine, cups of coffee in a tray and muffins in a bag. He may hate hospitals, but he remembers enough about them to know that food and coffee generally aren’t things they are known for.
Dean greets him like a dying man, inhales half of his cup in one go, then sends longing looks at the cup intended for Sam.
--
“You kicked their asses, right?”
“Yes, Dean.”
Dean looks strangely satisfied by that. He nods, pats Castiel on the shoulder. “Good, good,” he says. “Next time you go out, I’m coming with.”
--
Castiel doesn’t go out again; it really isn’t something he enjoys, and has nothing to do with the fact that Sam doesn’t bring it up again. Sam, who has to wear a cast on his arm for several weeks. Castiel feels guilty about that, because he heals up much faster. His most serious injury was a displaced rib and a sprained ankle. Sam was lucky he didn’t require surgery.
When Easter comes around, he goes to church. It’s the one constant he has left from his old life, from before his family disowned him. Easter is the only time he goes, and he doesn’t think that will change any time soon.
Dean badgers him into going running with him, claims it will build up Castiel’s stamina. Castiel goes, because he enjoys spending time with Dean no matter what they end up doing. It does give him the satisfaction of kicking Dean to the ground when he insists on teaching Castiel how to fight, though.
“The fuck?” Dean blinks up at him from the ground, eyes wide and mouth compellingly open. “Dude!”
Castiel feels his face warm a little, but they are already sweaty from their run so he thinks it probably goes unnoticed. “I lived in a group home. Mrs Anderson insisted on all of us knowing how to defend ourselves.” Castiel shrugs. “I wasn’t the only one with intolerant parents.”
Dean stands, narrows his eyes and grins. “See if I ever go easy on you again, dude.”
“Why would you go easy, Dean?” Castiel glares.
Dean smirks. “Thought you were a beginner. My bad.”
--
Dean mostly sleeps in a T-shirt and underwear. Also, he moves around a lot in his sleep. It means that he kicks his covers off, that when Castiel wakes early in the mornings, Dean is stretched out on his stomach with his face buried in his pillow because the early morning light hits his bed before Castiel’s. It means that his skin glows where the sun hits, on his back, the dip of his spine and the flesh of his thighs, because his T-shirt will invariably ride up and underwear never covered much in the first place.
Some mornings, it’s harder to look away.
Some mornings, he never wants to.
--
One morning, Castiel pulls out a sketchbook he hasn’t looked at in months. He isn’t an accomplished artist by any definition, but he enjoys the way his mind clears of everything when he puts his stub of charcoal on a blank sheet of paper. It’s early, earlier than usual, and Dean’s facing away from him, his face half-buried underneath his pillow, but that doesn’t make him any less appealing to Castiel.
He doesn’t know how long he draws, only that he has pages full of feet, and a thigh, and an arm, a hand, the creases of Dean’s T-shirt, the tufts of his hair. There are other details, too, pillows and sheets with silly race car motifs, but most feature Dean in some way.
“Dude,” Dean says, voice heavy with sleep. “You bein’ a creeper again?”
“No, Dean,” Castiel says. He considers stopping filling in the shade of the last sketch of Dean’s foot, but he doesn’t.
“What you up to, then?”
“Nothing.”
Dean makes a series of tired morning noises. “Not sure I believe you, man. You’re sneaky as fuck.”
Castiel doesn’t say anything in response. Sometimes, if Dean’s not encouraged to wake up, he will go back to sleep until his alarm actually goes off. What Castiel doesn’t expect is Dean suddenly falling down in a pile of sleep-heavy limbs on the bed next to him, Dean’s head in front of Castiel so that his nose is tickled by hair.
“Why are you drawing my foot, dude?”
“You have nice feet.”
Dean doesn’t say anything, but he moves back and turns around. “I have nice feet?”
“Dean,” Castiel says, closing the sketchbook. “You’re being rude.”
“I’m being rude? Dude, you’re the one drawing me while I’m sleeping. That’s, like, stalking or something.”
“It helps me clear my mind.” Castiel shifts, uncomfortably aware of how close Dean is, of how warm, and Castiel feels naked and fleshy. He isn’t wearing his binder, still in his sleep clothes, and he wishes that he had taken the time to get dressed, if only on top. He finds himself hunching his shoulders a little, trying to make himself invisible.
“They’re not that big,” Dean says.
“What?”
Dean gestures at Castiel. “Your breasts. They aren’t that big.”
Castiel scowls. “Don’t stare,” he snaps.
“I don’t.”
“I hate that I’m this way, Dean. It’s not okay-”
“Okay, okay,” Dean says, leaning close enough to put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “I don’t look, okay? I notice stuff, yeah, but I don’t go out of my way to do it. I’m just saying that you shouldn’t feel like you have to hide or something, because if I didn’t know I’d just think it was your shirt or whatever. This here?” Dean points at the walls. “This is a safe-space. We always keep the door locked. You have a key to that door, I have a key. If it’s a crisis, Sam will probably pick the lock to get in but he’s a bitch about knocking before entering, so you’ll know when he’s about to barge in.”
Castiel just nods, because he doesn’t know what to say.
“Okay?” Dean prods.
“I…yes. Okay.”
“Good,” Dean says, clapping his hands down on his thighs. They’re nice thighs, Castiel thinks, firm and muscled, freckled and dusted with golden hair. It’s a uniquely Dean trait, the way his facial hair doesn’t quite match the hair on the top of his head, or how the hair on his arms and legs is almost blond, or maybe slightly reddish and again nothing like the hair on his head. “Cas.”
“What?”
Dean taps his fingers under Castiel’s chin. “Eyes up here, man.” Castiel feels his ears grow warm. “I know I’m hot, but staring’s rude.” Dean sounds amused, but there’s something guarded about him.
It makes Castiel think of Sam, of the conversations they’ve had where Sam worries. It makes Castiel think about what he’s observed, that he’s never seen any of Dean’s “study-partners” return more than once even though he thinks Dean would probably want them to come back, because Dean is a social creature who thrives on connections to other people.
“You’re very attractive,” Castiel says. “You have a beautiful soul.”
Dean stares, then he shakes his head and chuckles. “You say the cheesiest stuff with the straightest face and you don’t even mean it that way, do you?”
Castiel frowns. “I mean that you’re a good person, Dean. You’re the best person I’ve ever met. I don’t think you realize how much it means to me that you treat me as me. I’ve been kicked out for less.”
Dean is quiet, staring at the wall. “I think you’re probably the best friend I’ve ever had, and that scares me.”
“Is it because we haven’t had sex?”
Dean starts, then throws his head back and laughs. It’s a nice laugh, maybe a little harsh, but not overly so. “Dude, my life is one long series of fucked-up one-night stands.”
“I tried to have sex once,” Castiel says instead, because it seems to be a safer route to go.
“Yeah?”
“It didn’t go well.” Castiel looks away. “I’m not a girl. They thought I was. It was uncomfortable.” Dean frowns, so Castiel adds, “He thought I owed him for putting up with me. I didn’t agree.”
“That sucks.”
“Yes.”
“Dickish move, by the way. You never owe anyone anything that you don’t want to give in the first place. So, yeah. You wanna grab breakfast?”
Castiel smiles. “That would be nice.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “You want the shower first?”
Castiel looks at his hands, dusty and blackened by the charcoal. He knows that there are probably spots on his face because he tends to forget about charcoal smudging everywhere. “I think that might be best,” he agrees, looking as earnest as he possibly can, then deliberately puts a hand on Dean’s thigh - it’s warm and firm and feels glorious - and uses it to push himself up.
Dean squawks in offense, but Castiel has already gathered his binder and a top and is sprinting for the bathroom, laughing.
“Not cool, dude!” Dean calls after him.
--
In hindsight, weeks later, Castiel realizes that when Dean asked, “You wanna grab breakfast?” what he was really saying was, “Date me?”
Castiel feels that it’s maybe okay that he isn’t the most socially aware person that ever existed because it gives him the time he needs to change his perception of Dean that little bit that dating a friend actually requires. Because Dean starts to touch him again, broadens Castiel’s horizons in ways he wasn’t aware existed. Where, before, Dean went to a bar or some other similar place to drink and have sex - or so Castiel assumes, anyway - Dean now makes Castiel do something with him. There are movies, dinners and lunches and breakfasts even more frequently than usual, hikes, rock climbing (which Castiel enjoyed very much and Dean less so because he forgot that he didn’t like heights until he looked down at the top of the wall) and long drives along the coast.
Castiel is confused but pleased about this development for three weeks. On the fourth, Dean looks at him with raised eyebrows and pursed lips. “You got no idea, do you?” he says.
Castiel clears his throat. “We are bowling now,” he says, because they are. “Bowling is cool?”
“That’s not what I mean, Cas.”
“I’m missing something.”
Dean laughs. “Dude, you’re missing half a cultural language development thing. Seriously, what do you do when someone asks you to watch a movie with them?”
“I watch a movie, Dean.” Castiel frowns. “We do it all the time. Last night-”
“Yeah, no,” Dean says. “When I ‘watch a movie’, I get laid. ‘Study dates’? All about the sex, man.”
“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
“Bowling?” Dean makes a grand gesture, sweeping an arm out to the room at large. “This is what high schoolers do on dates, dude.”
“We’re not in high school,” Castiel says. He’s not sure if he understands what Dean is telling him, of course, so he frowns extra hard at the bowling ball in his arms. Then he takes the required steps, moves his arms the way Dean showed him, and throws the ball down the lane.
Dean is there when he turns around, arms crossed over his chest and a smile in his eyes. “You know, if you were a chick you’d be raging on me for not getting you flowers or some bullshit.”
Castiel raises an eyebrow. “How good it is I’m not, then.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “You gonna let me kiss you this time?”
“On the first date?” Castiel makes a huffing noise, but his heart is pounding. “I’m not easy, Dean.”
“First?” Dean sputters. “This is, like, the fifth!”
Castiel just shakes his head, then walks around Dean to collect his ball again for the second throw. “Then you should have said so. This is the first date. I understand it’s customary to ‘put out’ on the third.”
“This is the fifth date, Cas!”
“It’s the first, Dean,” Castiel says, then throws his ball and manages a spare. He thinks he’s maybe getting the hang of this bowling thing.
“Fifth,” Dean says, catching Castiel around the waist before he has a chance to turn away from the lane. Then he kisses Castiel, and it’s easy and quick, over almost before it started.
Castiel is too startled to know if he likes it or not.
--
Castiel isn’t sure how he feels about dating. Dean Winchester isn’t the problem - Dean hasn’t been a problem for quite some time. Castiel knows how he feels. He knows he likes Dean, that he enjoys Dean’s company, his personality, his crass comments and the way he makes a room so full of life and color just by being in it.
So, no. Dean Winchester isn’t the problem. Castiel isn’t sure if there is one, as such. Except…
Except, Castiel has dated twice before. Once, a girl when he was fifteen. She had been more shy and nervous than he, and nothing actually happened beyond comfortable hugs, sweaty hands holding together tight, and somewhat awkward, wet kisses. It ended when Castiel started putting together why he was wrong, when he figured out why he felt out of place and why he didn’t fit.
It’s still Castiel’s most successful relationship to date.
The second time he tried dating, it was less about him and more his then-roommate’s sense of Castiel owing him for “putting up with Castiel’s high-maintenance idiosyncrasies.” So maybe, Castiel thinks, the second time wasn’t about dating at all. It was about paying for a mockery of friendship with sex, never about Castiel.
Now, there is Dean. Dean, who smiles and laughs and touches and feels. Dean, who talks without thinking, who is honest and loud, who cares with such reckless abandon about the most ridiculous things. Dean, who wants Castiel.
Castiel isn’t sure he knows what to do with Dean, how he fits in Castiel - with Castiel. He just knows that before Dean - before Sam, too, in a way - Castiel had been alone. Dean has made Castiel reach out to see what’s beyond the grasp of his arms, to see the world and try to touch it.
Dean makes Castiel feel alive in ways he hasn’t dared to in years, and that scares him maybe more than anything else.
--
“If this is an attempt at sex, then I feel obliged to point out that I don’t work that way.”
Dean blinks at him. His hair is a mess, his headphones are sitting crooked on his head, and Castiel suspects he interrupted Dean’s private study time. “Huh?”
“I said-”
“No, I heard. I just. What?”
“If you’re doing this because you want sex-”
“Yeah, no. Dude, you don’t fuck with your friends, man. That’s just a recipe for disaster, trust me.”
Castiel nods, because that is his opinion as well. Of course, he’s never had sex in his life before, but until Dean, he’s never particularly wanted to, either. Before, sex seemed messy, invasive and vaguely off-putting. Now, while he still thinks roughly the same about sex in general, he thinks that if it were with Dean, then it wouldn’t be like that at all. Maybe. Castiel suspects he might need a little more time to come to terms with himself in a sexual relationship, but ultimately it’s not about sex as much as it is about Dean, and Castiel thinks he might love Dean.
“Good,” Castiel says.
“Good. Okay, yeah. So…”
“So, if we are dating, then there are certain…ground rules. That I need you to understand. For me. Dean.”
Dean smiles, pulls his headphones off, then stands and stretches, and Castiel fails to not stare. It’s not his fault, entirely; Dean is very compelling.
“Yeah, I know,” Dean says.
“I’m not like the others.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t like when-”
“I know,” Dean says again, his hands warm and firm on Castiel’s elbows, his shoulders and his neck. “I’ve got this one rule, too, and it’s basically along the lines that ‘no means no,’ so, you know. Use it.”
“I see,” Castiel says, and he wets his lips. It’s hard to focus when Dean is so close, when his body is so warm and his eyes so dark and intense and on Castiel. “Dean-”
“Cas, I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”
“Okay,” Castiel gets out, his lips brushing Dean’s in a way that sends fire down his stomach, and then Dean is kissing him. Castiel thinks he might have forgotten how to breathe, but he doesn’t care, because Dean is kissing him. And yes, it’s not the first kiss he’s ever been part of but it might as well be. Because Dean? He-
“You’re thinking too much,” Dean says against his lips.
“No-”
“Cas, dude.”
Castiel rolls his eyes. “Fine, yes.”
“Just relax, okay? It’ll be fine.” Dean kisses him again, a quick press of lips that lingers. “Promise.”
Castiel smiles. “Okay.”
“Okay? Good. Now shut up.”
Dean’s kisses are full of the same kind of intensity he puts into everything he does - in a way, Dean is intensity - and Castiel lets himself be swept up in it, let’s himself sweep Dean away in his fledgling optimism for a bright future and brilliant choices. He has trust in Dean, Dean has trust in him, and right now that’s all he needs.
Author: sa_kun
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/pairings: Castiel/Dean, Sam
Rating: Teen and up
Word Count: 8,3k
Summary: Castiel thinks Dean is probably the most attractive man he has ever met in his life.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Author’s Notes: College!AU. Contains homophobia and transphobia.[ Also?]Castiel is trans*, female to male (ftm). In my eyes, Cas is demisexual in this, but that's really up to you. If you would rather read elsewhere, this fic is also up on a AO3.
This is for runawaydreamer, because she's always awesome and she beta'd this.
The first time Castiel sees his roommate, he’s sure there’s been a mistake. Castiel’s roommate is the epitome - the very spitting image - of the type of person he wants to get away from.
‘Bully’ is simply the easiest, most encompassing word he prefers to use.
Dean Winchester is loud. He has a love for all things sexual that involve women and is not shy about expressing it. He listens to mullet rock and claims it to be the very finest music ever produced. He eats unhealthy food. He drives a black muscle car and wears a leather jacket that doesn’t quite fit him. He parties every weekend. He goes running, which goes against everything about the person he likes to portray himself as, but he does it anyway because it’s something he’s used to doing, he says, with his dad and whiny-ass little brother.
Castiel started the college life late, but so did Dean, and he thinks that is the main reason they are rooming together.
--
Castiel hates having a roommate.
It means always sleeping with an eye open, always keeping large sweaters and cardigans and hoodies by his bed in case Dean should suddenly wake him in the night. It means smuggling his binder in with his clothes into the bathroom when gets dressed in the morning.
It means being constantly afraid that Dean will notice something, will somehow see that he and Castiel are not biologically the same.
It means being terrified that Dean will attack him with words and fists and feet.
Dean, who is uncouth and brash, who talks too loud and wide about whatever strikes his fancy; whose father is an ex-marine who taught him how to shoot guns, use knives and fight hand-to-hand combat.
Castiel, of course, thinks Dean is probably the most attractive man he has ever met in his life.
--
“Hey, dude,” Dean says when Castiel opens the door to their room. He’s not alone - not an entirely unusual ordeal, though usually his company is female and less composed.
“Hello,” the other boy says.
“This is Sammy,” Dean says. “My brother. Cas, my roomie.”
“Yes,” Castiel says, because he has social skills like no other. “Hello.”
The smile Dean’s brother offers him is more of a grimace. “My name is actually Sam, but Dean refuses to accept I’m not a chubby twelve-year-old anymore.”
“I’m Castiel. I don’t mind.”
Any variation of his name, the name that he chose, is infinitely better than the one his parents gave him, after all.
“So, we were gonna catch a movie tonight. You wanna come?”
It’s no secret that Castiel doesn’t have much of a social life or that Dean will on occasion invite him along. The question may have been placed as a suggestion or an invitation, but Castiel has learned the hard way that refusing to accept is far less pleasant for him. After all, at the end of the day he still has to live with Dean. Hell may not have the kind of fury a scorned woman supposedly does, but Shakespeare had clearly never come across a spurned Dean Winchester, so Castiel feels inclined to let that slide.
“I am not a fan of a lot of movies,” he says anyway, which, of course, Dean already knows.
“Sammy’s pick,” Dean says. “If I had ovaries, they’d be bleeding, and I’m not suffering alone. You’re coming, Cas.”
“Dean!” Sam snaps.
“What? You always pick never-ending dramas with way too much cheesy romance and shit.”
“And you always pick horror movies that premiered forty years ago,” Castiel says, heart pounding. He knows, of course, that Dean isn’t picking on him when he lets blatant sexism color how he expresses himself, but sometimes it’s hard not to let it get to him. “If it were up to me-”
“I let you pick one time,” Dean mutters. “And I had to sit and watch some three hour long flick where not one dude spoke English. Not one! You’ve had your movie-picking privileges revoked for the rest of eternity, buddy.”
--
After that day, Castiel is suddenly seeing Sam everywhere. Most notably, of course, is at the LGBTQ headquarters of the school. It leaves Castiel feeling a little bit stunned, a little bit surprised, because Sam is Dean’s younger brother. He had noticed how different they were, of course, but he’d also noticed how close and inseparable. He wants to ask why Sam comes to the meetings, but it would be rude, so he holds back; he wouldn’t want anyone asking him.
Castiel’s family was mostly cut from the same cloth, with few but very noticeable exceptions. He can’t help but wonder what kind of cloth Sam and Dean are cut from.
“Hey, Cas,” Sam greets him, as he has done at their every meeting now since the force that is Dean Winchester brought their worlds into contact. Castiel doesn’t entirely mind; Sam is nice.
“Hello.”
“Dean never told me you came here, too,” Sam says.
Castiel blinks. “I wasn’t aware I had to tell him?”
“No, no, of course not, dude.” Sam is all wide eyes and blustering innocence. It’s a refreshing sight, after living with Dean. “I just, he talks about you a lot, so… I don’t know. Never mind.”
“He talks about me?”
“You live together,” Sam points out. “Yeah, of course he does. You’re the only friend he has that, well. Let’s just say you’re the only friend he has who doesn’t want to get into his pants and leave it at that, okay?”
“What do you mean?” Castiel’s heart is speeding up, because it’s been years since he had a friend, and here Sam is, claiming that Dean considers him his friend. It’s startling and new. And terrifying. It’s something he finds he wants with a desperation that surprises him.
Sam shrugs. “Just that a lot of the time people hang around Dean because they think he’s hot, and they don’t really care about him as a person, you know?”
“People are shallow,” Castiel agrees, and it’s something he has experienced first-hand far too many times.
Sam laughs, but it’s not necessarily a happy sound. “The first time I went to a GSA club in high school- Well, there were a lot of first times because we moved around a lot. Anyway, at one place they wouldn’t let me join because I was too tall, like that has anything to do with anything, you know? Or because of Dean, or my dad, or just tons of different little reasons that basically had nothing to do with me.”
“I see,” Castiel says, slanting a glance at Sam. “You are rather tall.”
“I know, right?” Sam grins. “Rubs Dean like you wouldn’t believe.”
“He does have an overabundance of testosterone.”
--
“I saw your brother today,” Castiel says later that night. Dean grunts, so Castiel knows he’s listening, that he’s still awake. “At the GSA.”
“Yeah, he goes there.” There’s the sound of shifting, bedsprings creaking. “Didn’t know you were one of those, too.”
“One of those?” If there is derision and offense in his tone, then Dean brought it on himself.
“You know.” Dean yawns. “Freedom fighters. Rebels. Like, Sam is totally Luke Skywalker in this scenario, but I’m Han Solo ‘cause I’m too cool for this school.”
“Oh. Is he-?”
“Dunno. Didn’t ask.”
“How very marine of you, Dean.”
“Hey, I read that it wasn’t cool, okay? Like, you don’t ask ‘cause telling people is part of the whole deal, right? So if Sammy’s got something to say, then I’ll be there. Until then? I’m good with waiting.”
“You’re a good brother,” Castiel says, heart pounding.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
--
At Christmas, Dean stays but so does Castiel. Sam spends most nights sleeping on a spare mattress by Dean’s bed. The crowding freaks Castiel out, but he’s not heartless enough to throw anyone out on Christmas, much less Dean’s brother, someone who has been weaseling his way into something that might be called friendship as well.
Castiel can’t remember the last time he had friends, and it makes him panic a little, because the last time he did, it didn’t end in a way that made him want to try again, somewhere else with someone entirely different.
But now there are two people he needs to hide from, two people he needs to maintain a front with at all times. The first time he takes his clothes to change in the bathroom, Sam frowns at him. Dean slaps his brother over the head, though, just as Castiel is passing him by, and nothing is said of it.
Occasionally, Dean’s remarkable sense of insight surprises Castiel. He thinks maybe it shouldn’t. Dean is astute; he’s a people person.
--
They eat pizza on Christmas Day, have pie and too much ice-cream, eat too much candy and potato chips. The TV is looping one movie after another, and Castiel feels remarkably content. They exchange cheap gifts, drink too much eggnog and stay up far too late.
It’s the happiest Castiel remembers being in a long time.
--
“How come you don’t date, man?”
It’s the day after Valentine’s Day. Dean, who spent all of yesterday ‘prowling’, is now spread-eagled on his bed, all loose limbs and contentment. There are times when Castiel is incredibly jealous over the ease Dean has with his own body.
“I have no interest in dating.”
“For real, or just ‘cause you’re a hermit?”
Castiel glares at Dean, but Dean’s eyes are closed. “I might admit that there has never been occasion,” Castiel says after a long enough pause. “But it’s not a lie that I have no particular interest in it, either.”
“So, like, no one ever catches your eye?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dean. Of course I notice attractive people. I just don’t feel an urge to jump their bones.”
“Ever?”
“Why are we playing Twenty Questions, Dean?”
Dean shrugs. “Just something we talked about in class. But, Cas, man, I’m your friend, so yeah, sometimes I wonder about you.”
“I’m content.”
“Now, or always?”
“Now,” Castiel acknowledges, because it took him a long time to come to this point. “I am…starting to become optimistic. About my future. I’m…more comfortable in my skin now. It’s a good feeling.”
“That’s good, man.”
Castiel raises an eyebrow and wonders if it truly is. “Last time I was optimistic about something, my family threw me out.”
Dean sits up so fast the motion almost blurs. “What?! Why?”
“I told them something they didn’t want to hear.” Castiel clears his throat, uncomfortable with the intensity in Dean’s eyes, all of it focused on him. “And I refused to be brainwashed into something I’m not.”
“What? You said you were gay and they wanted to send you off to bible school?”
Castiel looks away. He picks at the covers on his bed. Incidentally, they were one of the more useful Christmas presents: new bed sheets. Dean’s taste in linens is not the best, but they fill their purpose regardless. Although why he would want to sleep with Batman is beyond him when Mystique’s ambiguity is so appealing, or the masculinity of Wolverine so compelling… Which of course has no bearing on sheets, but that isn’t really the point.
“No. I’m not gay, I don’t think. People catch my eye regardless of gender. I like hands or eyes or freckles, or the slope of shoulders, or the curve of hips. But I don’t define myself as gay or straight.”
“So, bi?”
“No, Dean. I’m not overly fond of labels. I have too many of them as it is.”
Dean sighs and shrugs. “If they got me tossed out, I don’t suppose I’d be thrilled with them, either. I’m not asking, okay? ‘Course, I’m gonna be wondering why, but-”
“I told them I was a boy, that I wasn’t their daughter and had never been,” Castiel says, and it’s almost offhanded enough to make it sound as if he does not care, when it’s the very opposite that’s true. He feels all color drain from his face, and then he’s got his head between his knees, trying desperately to breathe because he didn’t mean to tell Dean that. He meant to say that his family had disagreed with his worldviews, with his ideals and way of life and how Castiel didn’t want to follow in his family’s footsteps as bigots and homophobes and he hadn’t meant to tell Dean that.
“Cas? Cas, man, hey, you gotta calm down and breathe, okay? Breathe for me-”
There is an endless loop of Dean’s voice, steady and calm and low, even as his hands are frantic on Castiel’s back and shoulders.
When Castiel can finally breathe, the room is shrouded in shadow and Dean is sitting behind him, chest pressed close to Castiel’s back, still talking.
“Dean,” he says, and Dean starts.
“Cas? Hey, shit, you totally freaked me out-”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, dude, you don’t have anything to be sorry-”
“People look at me differently when they know,” Castiel says, subdued. He leans his head back until it’s resting on Dean’s shoulder, but he turns his face away because he isn’t sure if he can stand looking Dean in the eye right now, doesn’t know if he can be that brave. “I didn’t want that to be you.”
Dean is quiet a moment, then he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, man.”
“Dean…”
“No, seriously. Like, your parents desperately wanted a daughter so they forced you into dresses and stuff? I’ve seen documentaries about that on TV. Like, a mom really wants someone to follow in her footsteps, so she makes her son wear frills and stuff. Like she can change a dude into a chick.”
Castiel just breathes. In a way that is exactly the truth, but it’s also not the whole truth, or even strictly speaking the “right” truth. “No,” he says. “It’s essentially the same but I was born biologically wrong, Dean. To them I was a daughter, but it was wrong.”
“So it’s more a case of ‘dude looks like a lady’?”
“No. More a case of me actually being a man but nothing is right.”
Dean is quiet for a moment. “It’s not like cross-dressing, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
“What’s a transvestite? I mean, like that British dude. Izzard?”
“What it looks like: someone who enjoys dressing up as a member of the opposite sex.”
One of Dean’s hands come up then, knuckles sliding along Castiel’s jaw. Castiel flinches a little, but Dean ignores it. “How does this work, then? You have stubble; I’ve seen you shave.”
“Hormone treatments.”
“Oh. Okay.”
--
To his credit, Dean doesn’t really look at Castiel differently after that. He touches him less, though, and Castiel would be grateful if it wasn’t also a change. There are times when they are talking and Dean, being Dean, will say something that might be derogatory about women, then stops himself with a strange expression on his face, glances at Castiel, says sorry and changes the subject.
It grates on Castiel.
But Dean also never tries to insinuate that he is in any way wrong, which is both refreshing and exhilarating, and Dean is still forcing him to be social every so often, so nothing major actually changes.
--
“Oh, dude,” Dean says one day, tearing into the room and folding Castiel into a really tight, hard and long hug.
It’s not something Castiel would say he is at all used to. Dean might be rather free and physical with his affection, but he rarely hugs anyone.
“Dean?”
“Shit, man, I had no idea,” Dean says to Castiel’s shoulder. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again, okay? Hell, I’m putting a leash on you and you’re just gonna have to deal with it, okay? Sonofabitch.”
“Um,” Castiel says, because he isn’t sure what the proper response is. He awkwardly pats Dean’s back, then tries to wriggle away. It’s a moot point, because the more he tries to escape, the tighter Dean clings. It is a little bit like being caught in quicksand, he imagines. “What’s going on, Dean?”
“Sammy picked the movie,” Dean says. “Fucking ‘Boys Don’t Cry’.”
“Oh.”
“You seen it?”
Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t like to torture myself,” he says, which is true, but he also read the reports, the news articles, the statements of the people involved in the true story that hid behind the movie. After, he could never justify watching a production that made its money by exploiting the pain of real people. “Dean, can you let go?”
“No.”
“This is uncomfortable.”
“Don’t care. Fucking deal, man.” For a moment, Dean squeezes harder, but then he does let go, only to hold Castiel at arm’s length by the shoulders. “How the fuck can you stand to room with me?”
Castiel averts his eyes, because deflection is an acceptable form of dealing with all matters concerning Dean Winchester. “It’s not so bad,” he says.
“Lying little liar,” Dean counters, eyes narrowed as he ducks after Castiel to force eye contact. Sometimes Castiel does hate Dean, but only a little.
“I hated it in the beginning,” Castiel admits, then. “I hated it. I was terrified. It was beyond awful. But you didn’t question my need to change in the bathroom, or mock me for it, or push me. You have always let me be. So I find I’m not as uncomfortable anymore. You’re a good person, Dean.”
Dean’s ears go red, which is rare enough that Castiel takes a certain amount of pleasure in it.
“Even if I dislike the way you’ve changed how you treat me.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “I haven’t-”
“When I was stressed out about classes, you used to say, ‘Man up, dude, don’t be a fucking girl about it.’ You used to call your brother a whiny little princess. You used to say I was a ‘girl’ about the way I prefer to keep my half of the room in order.” Castiel glares a little at Dean, a silent dare for him to refute the accusation. He doesn’t. “You changed.”
“I didn’t wanna offend you,” Dean says. “I mean, I went to the club you and Sammy hang out at, right, and they had all these pamphlets and shit. So maybe I read them. And they were all about not stepping on toes or crossing lines and no-go zones and don’t touch this or that, and, yeah.”
The fact that Dean would go to such lengths for Castiel is warming, but the fact that Dean still changed does infuriate him. “I have one rule, Dean, and it’s simple: treat me as you would any other person. Don’t differentiate.”
“You mean you really want me to barge in and take a leak when you’re in the shower? ‘Cause you know I can pick a lock like nobody’s business, and the bathroom door’s ridiculously easy.”
Castiel goes a little red. “I will kill you if you ever do that. Painfully.”
Dean smirks. “Noted. Just for curiosity’s sake, you gonna use the shampoo bottles or the showerhead?”
“The shower curtain rod. Then I will key your car.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “There’s no need to be mean, Cas.”
“There is every need,” Castiel counters, and maybe he’s smirking, maybe he’s enjoying messing with Dean. “Rerecord your tapes.”
--
Castiel dislikes alcohol. He doesn’t enjoy the sensation of losing control, so while he does accept Sam’s heartfelt and pleading invitation to go out to a nearby bar with him and a few others from the LGBTQ club, he refrains from drinking, even though he is old enough.
Sam isn’t, but Castiel isn’t sure if that would have stopped him if the pretty but sassy blonde who also decided to come along hadn’t declared that underage drinking is just plain stupid. Sam, he reflects, is young enough to let forces like that direct him.
Of course, when that force is Dean, there isn’t much Castiel can do to escape it, either.
“What’s the name of this place again?” Sam asks, sliding a tall glass of ice and soda over the table to Castiel. He looks contemplative as he glances around, making note of the pool tables and dartboards.
“The Hole,” Castiel says.
“Huh.”
“What?”
“I think Dean comes here?” Sam says, but he sounds amused rather than bemused. “I think I need to talk to him about riling up the wrong kind of crowd again.”
Castiel raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“Dean is a bit of a player, you know? Not, like, with people or anything, not like that, but he likes playing pool with high stakes. In a place like this? Dean’s raking in a fortune.”
“He has a lot of casual assignations.”
“Yeah, but they all know the score. Dean coming here, playing pool for money when most of the guys here bat for the home team?”
“I see.”
“My brother’s a flirt, but he doesn’t need to be an idiot about it.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t like this kind of attention, then?” Castiel asks when Sam takes to sucking on his straw, pouting and looking very mulish.
Sam suddenly looks very young. Sometimes it’s difficult to remember that Sam is one year younger than the freshmen at college usually are. “Pretty sure he’s straight. I mean, he would’ve said, right?”
Castiel makes a contemplative noise. “He compared himself as the Han Solo to your Luke Skywalker when we talked about gay rights.”
“So?”
“So, Han Solo was a rebel as well.” Castiel raises an eyebrow. “He’s your brother, though.”
Sam pouts a little. “Han Solo got the girl, though.”
“You do remember ‘the girl’ was Luke’s sister?”
--
Of course, because he’s Castiel and something almost always has to happen, he and Sam are jumped when they leave the club.
--
“No, nuh-uh,” Dean is saying before Castiel’s even managed to fully open the door. “You don’t come home ‘til the pumpkin turns back, Cinderella- Holy shit, what happened, dude!?”
So, yes, some of Dean’s less savory comments and sense of humor might have started to trickle back since their talk. Castiel isn’t sure whether or not to appreciate that yet. What he does know is that his face is bleeding, his ribs are smarting, his knuckles ache and there is something wrong with his right foot. Actually, much of everything hurts, even when Dean’s hands, gentle and sure, tip his face from side to side.
“We got ‘em good,” Sam slurs from behind Castiel. “Dude, there’s two of you. I don’t feel so good.”
“Sammy?” Dean gets Castiel to sit on his bed, then has his hands all over Sam. Sam bats at him, but he’s injured and not fast enough. “Hospital?”
“I think I have a concussion, Dean,” Sam says, and he sounds no older than five, either.
“His arm might be broken,” Castiel adds.
“Ow,” Sam says. “Dean, Dean-”
“I’m here, Sammy,” Dean says, carefully pulling up the sleeve over Sam’s right hand. “What happened?”
Sam has trouble keeping his eyes open, so Castiel clears his throat. “We left the bar early. I don’t do well with people, and the crowd was crushing me. Dean, I… We were two blocks away, and they came from nowhere.”
Dean just clenches his jaw. “How many?”
“Four.”
“Fucking cowards,” Dean spits. “We gotta take Sammy to the hospital, okay? His arm’s broken.”
--
Castiel hates hospitals. Dean manages most of the paperwork and talking that’s required, but then the nurses separate him and Sam, and Dean goes with his brother.
If Castiel still had a brother, he would have done the same.
The nurse, Williams, takes his time patching Castiel up. Williams helps him out of his jacket and coat, his shoes, socks and his trousers, calls him Castiel and is perfectly polite. He even makes the mandatory photographing that will be used as evidence - should Castiel choose to press charges - as painless as possible. He talks about how this will be reported to the police and that an officer will be by to take a statement, so Castiel shouldn’t be surprised when an officer stops by later on.
There is only a problem when Castiel refuses to remove his shirt. He is wearing a T-shirt underneath, but it’s far more naked than he feels comfortable being around strangers.
“Castiel,” Williams says. “I need to see if your ribs are broken.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re clutching your side like it hurts.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I guarantee you, there is nothing I haven’t seen before. And I wouldn’t be doing my job if I let you out of here without tending to all your wounds.”
Castiel nods, but refuses to meet Williams eyes. “Turn around,” he says, and Williams complies. It takes Castiel a long time before he can manage to unbutton his shirt and pull it off. There is still the matter of his T-shirt, though, and his binder. He can’t lift his arms over his head, his shoulder is throbbing, the ribs on his right side feel like they’re on fire and he wants to break down and cry.
This is why he hates hospitals - they’re invasive and demeaning. They force him to wear labels that don’t fit, push him into a biological slot that isn’t his.
“Castiel?”
“I can’t lift my arms.”
After a moment, Williams turns around. “Okay,” he says, then helps Castiel move into a position where Williams can slide his last barrier of defense toward the outside world off. “One more layer, huh?” Williams says, folding the T-shirt neatly and placing it on the bed next to Castiel.
“I don’t want to.”
“I’m sorry,” Williams says. “But you’re injured. The fact that you can’t comfortably lift your arms means I need to do a proper examination, okay? Lean forward again. This is probably tight and firm enough to keep your ribs in place so it doesn’t feel as bad, right?”
“Probably,” Castiel says. After that, when he sits nearly naked as Williams examines his ribs and his shoulder, down by the small of his back where he hadn’t even noticed he was injured, the bruise on his left hip, Castiel refuses to meet Williams’ eye. He keeps a hand over his chest and Williams doesn’t tell him to move it.
“There is some bruising,” Williams says. “I don’t think they’re broken, but one has been snapped slightly out of position so I’m just going to call a doctor who can fix that. It’s what causes most of the pain. Your tailbone isn’t broken, but sitting may hurt for a while.” Williams pauses. “You might find it uncomfortable and painful to wear your special shirt for a while, judging by when we removed it. It’s complicated to put on?”
“I have to pull it up,” Castiel says. “They’re designed to be formfitting.”
Williams nods. “I have to take a few pictures now. Is that okay?”
“No,” Castiel says, but he lets Williams do it anyway.
--
The doctor calls him Ms Smith and refuses to call him anything else. In response, Castiel refuses to say a word at all.
--
When Dean walks inside Castiel’s room as if he owns it, Castiel is sitting wrapped in a blanket Williams had provided for him and his clothes are in a neatly folded pile next to him.
“Hey, Cas. How you holding up?”
“I’ve been better,” he says. “How is Sam?”
“They’re keeping him for observation overnight. He’s got a concussion, but it’s not bad, and a broken wrist. The rest is just bruising.”
“I had an out of place rib.”
“Ouch.”
“My doctor is an asshole.”
“They usually are,” Dean says. “Sam’s was a total bag of dicks. Hey, it’s not our fault we need medical attention in the middle of the night, right? Don’t give us your passive-aggressive shit, man.”
“My nurse said a policeman would drop by.”
Dean nods. “Yeah. Sam, too. You gonna press charges?”
Castiel looks away. “I don’t think so.”
“Cas-”
“I’m a freak, Dean. To them, I’m not worth the paper it takes to write on; or the ink, for that matter. The doctor wouldn’t even call me by my name.”
Dean sits down next to him, but he doesn’t touch him, which Castiel is grateful for. He isn’t sure if he could take it right now. “What happened tonight, Cas?”
Castiel shrugs. “They thought we were gay. It offended them. They took action. Sam and I responded. End of story.”
“You were just walking?”
Castiel nods. “Yes. Maybe they followed us from the club. I’m not attracted to your brother, Dean.”
“No, no, that wasn’t what I-”
“I know,” Castiel says. “Can you stay?”
Dean nods. “They have Sam under observation. Don’t need me distracting them. Your dickwad doctor?”
“I want to punch him in the balls. Williams said I shouldn’t.”
“Williams?”
“My nurse. He was very understanding.”
“Is he hot at least? It sucks when the hospital doesn’t even have hot nurses.”
Castiel laughs and shakes his head, because Dean never changes. Privately, Castiel thinks that is a good thing. “He has kind eyes,” he says at last. “And warm hands.”
--
The officer knocks on the doorframe and asks for Ms Smith.
Dean looks like a perfect human question mark. “Who?” he asks.
“Ms Smith,” the officer repeats. “Dr Rogers said she was in here?”
“It’s Castiel,” Castiel says. “And I’d like it if you didn’t refer to me as anything but that.”
The officer blinks; at him, at the paper in his hand, at the sign by the door. “Huh,” he eventually says. “So, ma’am-”
“No. Castiel or nothing,” Castiel practically growls out.
“Castiel,” the officer repeats, and Castiel isn’t sure if it’s his imagination or not, but there seems to be a slight hint of mocking in his tone. “I’m Officer Caldwell. Sir?” he directs the last bit at Dean, who still looks a little confused, but now there’s a hard, cold edge underneath.
“Dean. I’m staying.”
Castiel nods, and Caldwell lets it go.
“So, Castiel, why don’t you tell me what happened tonight?”
There is a strange emphasis on his name, but Castiel ignores it. “I was walking home from a bar - the Hole? - with Sam-”
“Boyfriend?”
Castiel frowns. “No. My roommate’s brother.”
“That’s me,” Dean says, wiggling his fingers. “Dean.”
“The Hole is a gay bar, right?”
“Yes.”
“Huh. Where were you when you were attacked?”
“Two blocks away,” Castiel says, then proceeds to explain as much as he can remember. Caldwell takes notes, of course he does, but the sympathy has long since dropped from his voice.
--
After the officer is gone, Castiel is free to go. Dean looks furious, but he doesn’t tear into Caldwell the way Castiel has no doubt Dean wants to, because Castiel asked him to refrain. Instead, Dean sits on the bed as Castiel stands up and stares at his pile of clothes.
Without his binder, he feels awkward and vulnerable and fleshy, and he absolutely hates it.
“I can’t wear my binder,” Castiel says.
“Your what-now?” Dean asks, glancing down at the clothes. He catches on fairly fast, because his eyes double in size. “Oh. Shit, never mind.”
“I hate this. Dean, I hate this so much.”
Dean looks at him, just looks him in the eye until Castiel has to turn away.
“Did the doctor say-”
“He didn’t say anything. My nurse thought I might be uncomfortable, but it doesn’t matter because I can’t put it on or even take it off!” Castiel explodes. “I hate this, Dean!”
“Okay,” Dean says. “I can help you put it on. Or-”
Castiel glares. “I’m not exposing myself for your enjoyment-”
“No, no! Shit, Cas, no, not like that.” Dean stands, picks the binder out from the rest of the folded clothes. “How do you put this on?”
“I step into it,” Castiel says after a while. He can’t help but be suspicious, though, because there are almost always ulterior motives involved.
Dean nods, swallows. “Right, so, I close my eyes, you turn your back, then we just…yank it on?”
--
In the end, they don’t go through with it because Castiel’s body is already aching too much. They would have had to remove it again when they came home anyway, and Dean is planning to stay at the hospital overnight even though Sam is fine, so Castiel decides not to put it on. He does layer up, though, pulls on all his clothes and huddles in them, then accepts the keys to Dean’s car and drives home.
The next morning, Castiel puts on two sports bras and pretends that they’re enough. He dresses carefully, chooses clothes he knows are too large on him but that help him pass.
Castiel reaches the hospital by nine, cups of coffee in a tray and muffins in a bag. He may hate hospitals, but he remembers enough about them to know that food and coffee generally aren’t things they are known for.
Dean greets him like a dying man, inhales half of his cup in one go, then sends longing looks at the cup intended for Sam.
--
“You kicked their asses, right?”
“Yes, Dean.”
Dean looks strangely satisfied by that. He nods, pats Castiel on the shoulder. “Good, good,” he says. “Next time you go out, I’m coming with.”
--
Castiel doesn’t go out again; it really isn’t something he enjoys, and has nothing to do with the fact that Sam doesn’t bring it up again. Sam, who has to wear a cast on his arm for several weeks. Castiel feels guilty about that, because he heals up much faster. His most serious injury was a displaced rib and a sprained ankle. Sam was lucky he didn’t require surgery.
When Easter comes around, he goes to church. It’s the one constant he has left from his old life, from before his family disowned him. Easter is the only time he goes, and he doesn’t think that will change any time soon.
Dean badgers him into going running with him, claims it will build up Castiel’s stamina. Castiel goes, because he enjoys spending time with Dean no matter what they end up doing. It does give him the satisfaction of kicking Dean to the ground when he insists on teaching Castiel how to fight, though.
“The fuck?” Dean blinks up at him from the ground, eyes wide and mouth compellingly open. “Dude!”
Castiel feels his face warm a little, but they are already sweaty from their run so he thinks it probably goes unnoticed. “I lived in a group home. Mrs Anderson insisted on all of us knowing how to defend ourselves.” Castiel shrugs. “I wasn’t the only one with intolerant parents.”
Dean stands, narrows his eyes and grins. “See if I ever go easy on you again, dude.”
“Why would you go easy, Dean?” Castiel glares.
Dean smirks. “Thought you were a beginner. My bad.”
--
Dean mostly sleeps in a T-shirt and underwear. Also, he moves around a lot in his sleep. It means that he kicks his covers off, that when Castiel wakes early in the mornings, Dean is stretched out on his stomach with his face buried in his pillow because the early morning light hits his bed before Castiel’s. It means that his skin glows where the sun hits, on his back, the dip of his spine and the flesh of his thighs, because his T-shirt will invariably ride up and underwear never covered much in the first place.
Some mornings, it’s harder to look away.
Some mornings, he never wants to.
--
One morning, Castiel pulls out a sketchbook he hasn’t looked at in months. He isn’t an accomplished artist by any definition, but he enjoys the way his mind clears of everything when he puts his stub of charcoal on a blank sheet of paper. It’s early, earlier than usual, and Dean’s facing away from him, his face half-buried underneath his pillow, but that doesn’t make him any less appealing to Castiel.
He doesn’t know how long he draws, only that he has pages full of feet, and a thigh, and an arm, a hand, the creases of Dean’s T-shirt, the tufts of his hair. There are other details, too, pillows and sheets with silly race car motifs, but most feature Dean in some way.
“Dude,” Dean says, voice heavy with sleep. “You bein’ a creeper again?”
“No, Dean,” Castiel says. He considers stopping filling in the shade of the last sketch of Dean’s foot, but he doesn’t.
“What you up to, then?”
“Nothing.”
Dean makes a series of tired morning noises. “Not sure I believe you, man. You’re sneaky as fuck.”
Castiel doesn’t say anything in response. Sometimes, if Dean’s not encouraged to wake up, he will go back to sleep until his alarm actually goes off. What Castiel doesn’t expect is Dean suddenly falling down in a pile of sleep-heavy limbs on the bed next to him, Dean’s head in front of Castiel so that his nose is tickled by hair.
“Why are you drawing my foot, dude?”
“You have nice feet.”
Dean doesn’t say anything, but he moves back and turns around. “I have nice feet?”
“Dean,” Castiel says, closing the sketchbook. “You’re being rude.”
“I’m being rude? Dude, you’re the one drawing me while I’m sleeping. That’s, like, stalking or something.”
“It helps me clear my mind.” Castiel shifts, uncomfortably aware of how close Dean is, of how warm, and Castiel feels naked and fleshy. He isn’t wearing his binder, still in his sleep clothes, and he wishes that he had taken the time to get dressed, if only on top. He finds himself hunching his shoulders a little, trying to make himself invisible.
“They’re not that big,” Dean says.
“What?”
Dean gestures at Castiel. “Your breasts. They aren’t that big.”
Castiel scowls. “Don’t stare,” he snaps.
“I don’t.”
“I hate that I’m this way, Dean. It’s not okay-”
“Okay, okay,” Dean says, leaning close enough to put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “I don’t look, okay? I notice stuff, yeah, but I don’t go out of my way to do it. I’m just saying that you shouldn’t feel like you have to hide or something, because if I didn’t know I’d just think it was your shirt or whatever. This here?” Dean points at the walls. “This is a safe-space. We always keep the door locked. You have a key to that door, I have a key. If it’s a crisis, Sam will probably pick the lock to get in but he’s a bitch about knocking before entering, so you’ll know when he’s about to barge in.”
Castiel just nods, because he doesn’t know what to say.
“Okay?” Dean prods.
“I…yes. Okay.”
“Good,” Dean says, clapping his hands down on his thighs. They’re nice thighs, Castiel thinks, firm and muscled, freckled and dusted with golden hair. It’s a uniquely Dean trait, the way his facial hair doesn’t quite match the hair on the top of his head, or how the hair on his arms and legs is almost blond, or maybe slightly reddish and again nothing like the hair on his head. “Cas.”
“What?”
Dean taps his fingers under Castiel’s chin. “Eyes up here, man.” Castiel feels his ears grow warm. “I know I’m hot, but staring’s rude.” Dean sounds amused, but there’s something guarded about him.
It makes Castiel think of Sam, of the conversations they’ve had where Sam worries. It makes Castiel think about what he’s observed, that he’s never seen any of Dean’s “study-partners” return more than once even though he thinks Dean would probably want them to come back, because Dean is a social creature who thrives on connections to other people.
“You’re very attractive,” Castiel says. “You have a beautiful soul.”
Dean stares, then he shakes his head and chuckles. “You say the cheesiest stuff with the straightest face and you don’t even mean it that way, do you?”
Castiel frowns. “I mean that you’re a good person, Dean. You’re the best person I’ve ever met. I don’t think you realize how much it means to me that you treat me as me. I’ve been kicked out for less.”
Dean is quiet, staring at the wall. “I think you’re probably the best friend I’ve ever had, and that scares me.”
“Is it because we haven’t had sex?”
Dean starts, then throws his head back and laughs. It’s a nice laugh, maybe a little harsh, but not overly so. “Dude, my life is one long series of fucked-up one-night stands.”
“I tried to have sex once,” Castiel says instead, because it seems to be a safer route to go.
“Yeah?”
“It didn’t go well.” Castiel looks away. “I’m not a girl. They thought I was. It was uncomfortable.” Dean frowns, so Castiel adds, “He thought I owed him for putting up with me. I didn’t agree.”
“That sucks.”
“Yes.”
“Dickish move, by the way. You never owe anyone anything that you don’t want to give in the first place. So, yeah. You wanna grab breakfast?”
Castiel smiles. “That would be nice.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “You want the shower first?”
Castiel looks at his hands, dusty and blackened by the charcoal. He knows that there are probably spots on his face because he tends to forget about charcoal smudging everywhere. “I think that might be best,” he agrees, looking as earnest as he possibly can, then deliberately puts a hand on Dean’s thigh - it’s warm and firm and feels glorious - and uses it to push himself up.
Dean squawks in offense, but Castiel has already gathered his binder and a top and is sprinting for the bathroom, laughing.
“Not cool, dude!” Dean calls after him.
--
In hindsight, weeks later, Castiel realizes that when Dean asked, “You wanna grab breakfast?” what he was really saying was, “Date me?”
Castiel feels that it’s maybe okay that he isn’t the most socially aware person that ever existed because it gives him the time he needs to change his perception of Dean that little bit that dating a friend actually requires. Because Dean starts to touch him again, broadens Castiel’s horizons in ways he wasn’t aware existed. Where, before, Dean went to a bar or some other similar place to drink and have sex - or so Castiel assumes, anyway - Dean now makes Castiel do something with him. There are movies, dinners and lunches and breakfasts even more frequently than usual, hikes, rock climbing (which Castiel enjoyed very much and Dean less so because he forgot that he didn’t like heights until he looked down at the top of the wall) and long drives along the coast.
Castiel is confused but pleased about this development for three weeks. On the fourth, Dean looks at him with raised eyebrows and pursed lips. “You got no idea, do you?” he says.
Castiel clears his throat. “We are bowling now,” he says, because they are. “Bowling is cool?”
“That’s not what I mean, Cas.”
“I’m missing something.”
Dean laughs. “Dude, you’re missing half a cultural language development thing. Seriously, what do you do when someone asks you to watch a movie with them?”
“I watch a movie, Dean.” Castiel frowns. “We do it all the time. Last night-”
“Yeah, no,” Dean says. “When I ‘watch a movie’, I get laid. ‘Study dates’? All about the sex, man.”
“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
“Bowling?” Dean makes a grand gesture, sweeping an arm out to the room at large. “This is what high schoolers do on dates, dude.”
“We’re not in high school,” Castiel says. He’s not sure if he understands what Dean is telling him, of course, so he frowns extra hard at the bowling ball in his arms. Then he takes the required steps, moves his arms the way Dean showed him, and throws the ball down the lane.
Dean is there when he turns around, arms crossed over his chest and a smile in his eyes. “You know, if you were a chick you’d be raging on me for not getting you flowers or some bullshit.”
Castiel raises an eyebrow. “How good it is I’m not, then.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “You gonna let me kiss you this time?”
“On the first date?” Castiel makes a huffing noise, but his heart is pounding. “I’m not easy, Dean.”
“First?” Dean sputters. “This is, like, the fifth!”
Castiel just shakes his head, then walks around Dean to collect his ball again for the second throw. “Then you should have said so. This is the first date. I understand it’s customary to ‘put out’ on the third.”
“This is the fifth date, Cas!”
“It’s the first, Dean,” Castiel says, then throws his ball and manages a spare. He thinks he’s maybe getting the hang of this bowling thing.
“Fifth,” Dean says, catching Castiel around the waist before he has a chance to turn away from the lane. Then he kisses Castiel, and it’s easy and quick, over almost before it started.
Castiel is too startled to know if he likes it or not.
--
Castiel isn’t sure how he feels about dating. Dean Winchester isn’t the problem - Dean hasn’t been a problem for quite some time. Castiel knows how he feels. He knows he likes Dean, that he enjoys Dean’s company, his personality, his crass comments and the way he makes a room so full of life and color just by being in it.
So, no. Dean Winchester isn’t the problem. Castiel isn’t sure if there is one, as such. Except…
Except, Castiel has dated twice before. Once, a girl when he was fifteen. She had been more shy and nervous than he, and nothing actually happened beyond comfortable hugs, sweaty hands holding together tight, and somewhat awkward, wet kisses. It ended when Castiel started putting together why he was wrong, when he figured out why he felt out of place and why he didn’t fit.
It’s still Castiel’s most successful relationship to date.
The second time he tried dating, it was less about him and more his then-roommate’s sense of Castiel owing him for “putting up with Castiel’s high-maintenance idiosyncrasies.” So maybe, Castiel thinks, the second time wasn’t about dating at all. It was about paying for a mockery of friendship with sex, never about Castiel.
Now, there is Dean. Dean, who smiles and laughs and touches and feels. Dean, who talks without thinking, who is honest and loud, who cares with such reckless abandon about the most ridiculous things. Dean, who wants Castiel.
Castiel isn’t sure he knows what to do with Dean, how he fits in Castiel - with Castiel. He just knows that before Dean - before Sam, too, in a way - Castiel had been alone. Dean has made Castiel reach out to see what’s beyond the grasp of his arms, to see the world and try to touch it.
Dean makes Castiel feel alive in ways he hasn’t dared to in years, and that scares him maybe more than anything else.
--
“If this is an attempt at sex, then I feel obliged to point out that I don’t work that way.”
Dean blinks at him. His hair is a mess, his headphones are sitting crooked on his head, and Castiel suspects he interrupted Dean’s private study time. “Huh?”
“I said-”
“No, I heard. I just. What?”
“If you’re doing this because you want sex-”
“Yeah, no. Dude, you don’t fuck with your friends, man. That’s just a recipe for disaster, trust me.”
Castiel nods, because that is his opinion as well. Of course, he’s never had sex in his life before, but until Dean, he’s never particularly wanted to, either. Before, sex seemed messy, invasive and vaguely off-putting. Now, while he still thinks roughly the same about sex in general, he thinks that if it were with Dean, then it wouldn’t be like that at all. Maybe. Castiel suspects he might need a little more time to come to terms with himself in a sexual relationship, but ultimately it’s not about sex as much as it is about Dean, and Castiel thinks he might love Dean.
“Good,” Castiel says.
“Good. Okay, yeah. So…”
“So, if we are dating, then there are certain…ground rules. That I need you to understand. For me. Dean.”
Dean smiles, pulls his headphones off, then stands and stretches, and Castiel fails to not stare. It’s not his fault, entirely; Dean is very compelling.
“Yeah, I know,” Dean says.
“I’m not like the others.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t like when-”
“I know,” Dean says again, his hands warm and firm on Castiel’s elbows, his shoulders and his neck. “I’ve got this one rule, too, and it’s basically along the lines that ‘no means no,’ so, you know. Use it.”
“I see,” Castiel says, and he wets his lips. It’s hard to focus when Dean is so close, when his body is so warm and his eyes so dark and intense and on Castiel. “Dean-”
“Cas, I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”
“Okay,” Castiel gets out, his lips brushing Dean’s in a way that sends fire down his stomach, and then Dean is kissing him. Castiel thinks he might have forgotten how to breathe, but he doesn’t care, because Dean is kissing him. And yes, it’s not the first kiss he’s ever been part of but it might as well be. Because Dean? He-
“You’re thinking too much,” Dean says against his lips.
“No-”
“Cas, dude.”
Castiel rolls his eyes. “Fine, yes.”
“Just relax, okay? It’ll be fine.” Dean kisses him again, a quick press of lips that lingers. “Promise.”
Castiel smiles. “Okay.”
“Okay? Good. Now shut up.”
Dean’s kisses are full of the same kind of intensity he puts into everything he does - in a way, Dean is intensity - and Castiel lets himself be swept up in it, let’s himself sweep Dean away in his fledgling optimism for a bright future and brilliant choices. He has trust in Dean, Dean has trust in him, and right now that’s all he needs.