Dean Winchester vs. The World
Title: Dean Winchester vs. The World
Rating: PG-13
Genre: AU
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: none, it’s an AU!
Warnings: schmoop, adorable kid!Sam, allergies, sexually frustrated Dean
Word Count: 8,537
Summary: October’s here, midterms are around the corner, and Dean has a bad case of the “blues.” Part 4 in the Once Upon a Wendigo Verse.
Author’s Note: We’ve taken all your feedback and constructive criticism to heart. We’ve made a very minor edit to the previous part -- Bela does not drive Sam and Ruby home, her chaffeur does, but she does load the kids into her car. Any disagreements with the characters and their actions/arguments/decisions is okay in our book. We really appreciate your feedback -- we want to write a good story! ♥
A chilly October morning finds the Winchester brothers in the kitchen having pancakes for breakfast. While Dean pours the batter onto the hot griddle, Sam enjoys a bowl of fresh fruit and the first pancakes of the batch.
Sam waves his empty bowl in the air. “More apples, Dean!”
“What do we say?”
“Please,” Sam says automatically, then returns to his millionth retelling of his playdate with Ruby. “And Dean the puppies were so soft and their tongues were wet and they tickled because they gave me a lot of kisses. Ruby says they give you kisses when they like you and they liked me a lot. And when you came to pick me up they cried like this--” He whines high in his throat, imitating the dogs, “and my heart felt like this--” Sam pulls his arms and legs close to his chest in a perfect imitation of a clenching heart before popping back to his full seated height on the kitchen stool.
“Really,” Dean replies, navigating around the kitchen and dropping a handful of apple slices into Sam’s bowl.
“Yeah,” Sam confirms. “But Ruby’s mama told me I could come back whenever I wanted. Ruby’s mama was so nice, she told the cook, she said, ‘Cook, make him a veggie lasagna.’ How did she know I like that?” He throws out his arms in disbelief, his right hand gripping his fork tightly while syrup drips off the end and onto his sleeve. “And I ate it and the puppies ate some too because they have these big eyes and they look at you like this--”
Dean flips the last few pancakes on top of their communal stack and takes a seat next to Sam at the kitchen island.
“Dean you’re not looking!”
“I’m looking, I’m looking.”
Sam has told his story so many times Dean knows exactly when to nod and look impressed. Sam continues to gesticulate wildly with his fork, managing to fling half-chewed bits of pancake onto Dean’s clean shirt. He’s glad Sam is happy; his happiness is all Dean needs to know he made the right decision about the playdate. He’d felt a little bullied into it by an irritated, hot, and defensive teacher, an exchange that in Dean’s mind still feels off. Dean’s thoughts keep probing at the memory of their heated discussion -- Dean refuses to call it a fight -- incessantly, like a tongue poking at a loose tooth.
Other than that mishap, things with Cas are good, great even. They’ve managed to go on several dates since their chance encounter outside the bookstore -- but to his dismay, they’d never get very far. Dean is beginning to realize why married people with children never get laid again, and he’s at the point where he can wax poetic about his sexual frustration.
He continues to think about the sorry state of his sex life even after dropping Sam off at school and heading to work. He pauses with the key in the lock to his office as his eyes fall on the office hours sign-up sheet he pinned to a small corkboard on his door. Every slot is filled, with one brave student jotting her name down under the last slot with an underlined and bolded PLEASE.
Dean enters his classroom ten minutes later and throws his bag onto his desk with a loud thump. His students jump in their seats and all side conversations cease immediately. One brave, possibly stupid, soul raises his hand with trepidation.
“Uh, professor?”
“What,” Dean grunts.
The student winces. “We were just wondering, um, about our midterm? We wanted to know what to expect...?”
Dean sighs and purses his lips. “Well, I was thinking of giving a short-answer midterm, three to five questions,” he says, surveying the room, when his eyes fall on a student wearing a hoodie the same shade as Cas’s eyes.
And the same color as your balls, his brain helpfully supplies in a voice that sounds vaguely like Jo.
“But you know what, I changed my mind and the midterm is a ten-page comparative paper--” the class yelps in protest, “--on any two texts we’ve read in class plus a text of your choice.”
His class mumbles, resigned to their fate. Two boys look close to tears. The boy on the right is wearing a Team Edward t-shirt. Oh hell no.
"Any and all references to Twilight will give you an automatic F." The class groans. "Yeah life is hard. I don't want to hear it."
Class goes on as usual, and if someone whispers behind his back that he needs to get laid, he makes no show of having heard it.
---
Halfway through the week and another day with back-to-back office hours, Dean finds a chance to eat his lunch. He bites into his sandwich, peanut butter no jelly because he ran late this morning, and wipes the crumbs off his desk. He’s expecting one more student before he can finally call it a day.
A smear of peanut butter finds its way onto his cheek when there’s a knock at the door. He swallows the half-chewed chunk of sandwich and coughs out a “Come in!”
The university’s resident writer shuffles in, looking every bit the disheveled novelist.
“Hey, Chuck.” Dean gestures at the chair on the other side of the desk, but Chuck nervously declines.
“Hey, Dean,” he greets. “Got a minute?”
Dean places his sandwich on a napkin. “Uh, sure. What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you could give my manuscript a once over?” The manuscript in question is being bent and twisted in Chuck’s hands, the edges curled with the moisture of sweaty palms. “I’m having difficulty with the writing and I need someone’s opinion. Someone besides Crowley, that is,” he says, handing the manuscript over to Dean’s outstretched hand.
Dean laughs, short and loud, at the image of the Head of the English department sneering at Chuck’s work. “I can’t imagine what he thought of it.”
“He said I have no sense of poetry.” Chuck ruffles his hair agitatedly. “But I’m not writing poetry?”
“Pretty sure that’s not what he meant, Chuck.” Dean flips through the manuscript idly, pausing to read a paragraph before closing the pages and nodding. “But yeah, I’ll read it.”
“You will?” Chuck squeaks, then composes himself. “Thanks, I really owe you one.”
“I’ll be honest though, I probably won’t get around to reading this for a while.”
“Take your time. I need a break, the whole thing’s been giving me migraines like you wouldn’t believe.” With a sigh of relief, Chuck allows himself to sink into the chair opposite Dean, the picture of boneless relaxation. “So how are midterms treating you?”
Dean groans. “I’m going to have to read thirty 10-page comparative papers because apparently I’m a masochist as well as a sadist.”
“Yikes, really shooting yourself in the foot there.” Chuck spots a framed picture of a little baby barely taking his first steps. “How’s Sam?”
“He started kindergarten last month,” Dean states simply, but the undercurrent of pride rings loud and clear.
“Next thing you know he’ll be another student in your class,” Chuck jokes.
Dean bristles at the thought. The horror must show on his face because Chuck throws his head back and laughs.
“You can’t stop Sam from growing up, Dean. It’s not like Pokemon where you love your pet so much you never let it evolve.” Dean scowls. Chuck ploughs on. “They do that in the real world, you know? We love baby cows so much we stick them in crates so they can’t grow and then we call them veal.”
“Except Sam is not on the menu du jour, asshat.” Dean angles the picture frame to face him. “I just want him to take his time growing up, is all.”
A persistent knock on the door breaks the moment.
“Oh man, you still have office hours! Shoot, I’ll get out of your hair.” Chuck stands to open the door and a flurry of wild blonde hair enters as he slips out of the office. “See you later, Dean!”
Dean nods as he polishes off the rest of his sandwich in one disgusting bite, manners be damned.
“Thanks for seeing me, Professor. I know you’re technically off the clock now so I’ll be quick. I just have some ideas for this paper I want to run by you-- oh, you have some peanut butter right there on your cheek.”
Dean lifts a hand to investigate. His fingers come away sticky. “Son of a-- Thanks, Becky.”
---
On his way to pick up Sam from school, Dean gets a phone call from Bobby. The Impala’s repairs are nearly done and she’ll be up and running by Friday afternoon. It’s the best news he’s had all week.
“So how about you and Sam come over for the weekend?” Bobby suggests.
Dean runs the option by Sam on the ride home, who gets so excited by their weekend plans that the second the front door swings open Sam rushes to his room to begin packing.
“No running,” Dean reminds with a sigh, but Sam’s already tumbling into his room. A thump follows shortly after.
“I’m okay!” Sam reports, pushing himself upright and pulling his small duffel from his closet.
He zips open the bag and places it on the floor in the middle of the room. He needs to pack the essentials. He pulls a few of Mr. Milton’s books off the shelf and puts them in his duffel bag first. Next he grabs a tin of green army men. They need enemies to fight against so he throws in his collection of plastic dinosaurs Aunt Jody gave him for Christmas. And in case the dinosaurs get hungry he throws in the rubber food from the mini kitchen Dean bought him when Sam wanted to run his own restaurant just like Aunt Ellen.
He’s zipping up the bag when he spots the box of legos under his bed.
---
Multiple thumps make their way down the stairs and Dean glances wearily down the hall. “Sam?”
Sam’s voice filters up from the first floor. “I can’t lift it.”
“What do you mean you can’t--” Dean stops short at the sight of Sam pushing his bag down the stairs. He picks up Sam with one arm and stoops to pick up the abused bag sitting innocently at the bottom of the staircase.
The bag is heavier than anticipated and fit to bursting. “Mind if I check your bag?”
“I packed just like you taught me.” Sam puffs his chest proudly.
Dean tugs on the zip and it flies open. A few toy cars tumble out of the bag and fall with a clatter on the floor. The duffel is stuffed with a sample of nearly all of Sam’s toys. A condensed battalion of army men, only the carnivorous dinosaurs, and oddly enough, just the vegetables from Sam’s kitchenette. A few of Cas’s books peek up from the bottom of the bag. Dean is almost not surprised by the fact that there is not a single article of clothing in sight.
“Do you really need to take all your dinosaurs?”
“Not all of them,” Sam protests. “I left three on my bed.”
Dean goes for a different tactic. “What are the rules for packing?”
“‘Pack only what you need’,” Sam recites by heart. “Dean I need them!”
---
Castiel sits on a chair at the front of the classroom, his enlarged copy of Stuck propped open on his lap. The students sit in two staggered rows forming semi-circles around him. The absurdity of the protagonist's actions has the entire class in stitches; even Kevin, who is preparing materials for quiet time, finds himself laughing alongside the four-year olds.
“Now wasn’t Floyd so silly?” Castiel asks. The students giggle in agreement. “What would you do if your kite were stuck in a tree?”
“I’d ask my mommy to get it down,” Ben volunteers.
“I’d ask Dean,” Sam pipes in.
“Why not ask your mommy?” Ed asks, peering at Sam from behind his thick glasses.
“I don’t have a mommy,” Sam blinks. “I have a Dean.”
Castiel is quick to redirect the conversation from potentially dangerous and triggering questions, then leads the students into quiet time. He makes a mental note to dedicate a class lesson or two on Diverse Families. It’s an important dialogue to introduce, especially before Mother’s Day and Father’s Day roll around.
The students separate themselves into two groups for quiet time. Castiel dims the lights and plays classical music softly in the background for the students who like to nap. For the students who stay awake, he encourages them to write or draw quietly. Kevin distributes sheets of paper and crayons.
The day ends on a musical note, Castiel leading the kids through a round robin of “Frère Jacques.” When the school bell rings announcing the end of the day, the students walk (“Calmly,” Castiel reminds) to the coat closet to collect their effects. The students filter out of the classroom onto the schoolyard to play while they wait to be picked up.
Castiel picks up a discarded sweater and peers inside the material for a name tag. Harry, it reads. Castiel clicks his tongue and hangs it back in the coat closet to be collected tomorrow.
The blocky calendar in the corner counts down the days to their next field trip to a pumpkin patch. He wonders if he knows any songs about Halloween, and vaguely recalls Five Little Pumpkins. The nursery rhyme has no accompanying music, but perhaps he can just make up a melody, he decides, and sits back down at the piano to pluck out a tune.
He begins by playfully tinkering at the keyed instrument, memories of a younger version of himself laboring away on the piano bench with Michael’s gentle coaching in his ear. A particular chord progression reminds him of an old favorite of his, and before he knows it Castiel is halfway through Chopin’s Etude Op. 10 No. 3.
“Sam mentioned you play the piano,” Dean says suddenly from over his shoulder, and Castiel hastily closes the lid over the keys with a snap. “But I didn’t realize you play the piano.”
“Just a little,” Castiel says humbly.
“Don’t be modest,” Dean coaxes, pulling up a chair and propping up the lid. “Come on, play me something, Amadeus.”
“Do you like Chopin?” Castiel begins to play a piece that sounds vaguely familiar to Dean before stopping. “I much prefer the cello,” he admits.
“The cello,” Dean repeats, filing the information away. Castiel turns on the piano bench to face him.
“Hello, Dean.”
There’s entirely too much space between them, Dean decides, and leans in to bridge the gap with a kiss.
“Hey,” Dean grins prettily at him. Castiel’s stomach flutters in response.
“Are we still on for this weekend?”
“Actually,” Dean’s tone is apologetic, “raincheck? I’m going up to Salina this weekend; I’m getting my baby back.”
“Just when I was getting used to you in that sexy Jeep,” Castiel pouts, placing a hand on Dean’s knee.
“Jeep Libertys are not sexy,” Dean makes a face, not noticing the hand slowly creeping up his thigh, “they’re mom cars.”
“I read on a culture blog that they are very popular with lesbians,” Castiel reports with a straight face.
“That’s it, I’m leaving.” Dean gets up and makes to leave but Castiel snags his sleeve.
“I’m kidding,” Castiel laughs, pushing himself off the bench. “Well, no I really did read that, but-- travel safely,” he tells Dean seriously, petting the side of his face fondly and kissing him again.
Dean rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I’m guaranteed to get there safely, I’ve just been blessed by an angel.”
Castiel sputters, choking on the sheer amount of cheese, before Dean’s grin turns into a leer. “If only I could be touched by one, too.”
“When you find out what that feels like, you let me know,” Castiel deadpans as he nudges Dean out the door.
“You’ll know when I know,” Dean promises with a growl, but still finds himself outside the classroom without even a kiss goodbye. Tease. “You’ll be the end of me,” he mutters while a smile threatens to split his face. He goes to collect Sam with a spring in his step.
---
“Okay, so what happens tomorrow?” Dean asks as he pulls the blanket up to Sam’s chin.
“I go to school!”
“That’s right. Then I’m gonna pick you up, we’ll have lunch, and then we’ll go to Bobby’s.” Sam titters excitedly. “But we can’t go if you don’t go to sleep.”
Sam stills, snuggling himself deeper into his thick comforter. “Okay. Story?”
“Alright,” Dean smiles, sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed. He reaches for his new favorite book and turns to the first page. “If you give a mouse a cookie,” he begins, watching as Sam listens attentively, “he’s probably going to ask for a glass of milk...”
---
Dean pulls off the I-70 sometime around six and pulls up to Bobby and Jody’s front door ten minutes later. They must hear the crunch of gravel as Dean pulls into the driveway because Jody has the door open before Sam’s even out of his booster seat.
“Aunt Jody!” Sam squeals before attaching himself to her leg. He looks up at her adoringly and squeezes her leg tight. “I brought you and Uncle Bobby a present.”
“Save it for after dessert. Go wash up, I made your favorite: macaroni and cheese.” Sam gasps and disappears inside. They both hear the moment he runs into Bobby. “Uncle Bobby!”
“Hey, Sheriff,” Dean greets.
“Oh come’re, you,” she says fondly, standing on her toes and pulling Dean in for a hug. “You go wash up, too. Here, give me your bags.”
“No, I got them.”
“Then you know where to put them.” She closes the door behind Dean, nudging at a corner of the entrance mat to lie flat again. Dean can already smell the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen. His stomach growls loudly.
“Nothing like a home cooked meal, huh?” Jody laughs.
Dinner is a raucous affair, made more lively by the generous portions of food and the delicious beer Bobby brews in the basement. Sam loses his fork mid-meal and eats his food with his hands. Dean frowns and looks ready to scold, but Bobby chides, “You ain’t the king of manners yourself, just let the boy eat.”
The flank steak is tender and amazing, and Dean helps himself to two servings. Sam looks on, intrigued, but shakes his head emphatically when Bobby offers him a bite. Jody gets up to refresh everyone’s drinks and returns with a can of sparkling cranberry juice for Sam. She pulls back the tab with a pop and a fizz and places a drinking straw in the can.
“Sippy!” Sam demands with huge puppy eyes.
“Sorry, sweetie, you’re a big boy now. Big boys drink from straws.” Jody is gentle, but her tone brooks no argument.
Sam pouts, but his lips close obediently around the straw and he reluctantly takes a drink.
Just as Dean announces he can’t eat another bite, Jody excuses herself to pull a cherry pie out of the oven.
“I take that back,” Dean amends quickly, sitting up from his slumped position on his chair.
“I’ll be right back,” Sam says as he climbs down from his chair and runs up the stairs.
Bobby takes this opportunity to talk shop. “Your car’s ready and fully paid for,” he reports. “She runs like a dream.”
“Awesome,” Dean replies and tilts his beer in salute.
Sam comes back waving a manila folder and holds it out to Jody before climbing onto Bobby’s lap.
“Now what are these?” Jody asks, opening the folder. “Oh my go-- Robert, look at this.” Bobby leans over and pulls his glasses out of his breast pocket.
“I painted them!”
“Good to know you’ve been reading that book I gave ya,” Bobby nods approvingly.
“Look at this shapeshifter,” Jody exclaims.
“Nah, that’s a skinwalker,” Bobby corrects, “look at the coyote mouth starting to form.”
Sam points impatiently at the next painting. “Look at the vampires!”
“They have more teeth than that,” Bobby critiques.
“I ran out of room,” Sam admits.
Jody shuffles through the paintings adoringly. “Which is your favorite, Dean?” she asks.
“The wendigo,” he smiles. “It’s back at the house, on the fridge.”
---
The next day Sam follows Jody around the house like a faithful duckling while Dean and Bobby go over paperwork for the Impala’s repairs. Bobby reviews the list of damage repaired and his eyes narrow in suspicion as Dean nods along, completely unfazed. In fact, Dean’s been downright chipper the entire weekend. Not that he’s not allowed to be in a good mood, but considering Dean’s anger the last time he’d been around, the complete turnaround in his attitude sets off Bobby’s alarms. He sets aside his questions for the time being.
After lunch, the rag-tag family wanders out to the porch to soak up some sun. It’s early afternoon, just past one, and the sun is still high over Salina.
Jody sits long-ways on the porch swing, and Sam hops on and settles between the vee of her legs, his back to her chest. They sway slightly in the breeze, nearly rocking in time with the rocking chairs where Bobby and Dean have settled. It’s quiet, and warm, and Sam nearly nods off several times.
Dean’s phone chirps obnoxiously and he scrambles to pull it out of his pocket. A grin appears on his face when he looks at the screen, and after furiously typing out a response to the text, he slips the phone back in his pocket. He takes a sip from his beer in an attempt to hide his smile.
Bobby breaks.
“Well you’re not gonna just come out and say it, so let’s hear it. What crawled up your ass and found your prostate?”
“Robert!” Jody hisses, covering Sam’s ears.
“Robert!” Sam repeats, sleepily.
Dean gapes and struggles to answer.
“I know all the signs,” Bobby ploughs on, “so no use trying to pull the wool over my eyes. I may be old, but I’m not blind. So who is it?”
“I, uh, that was,” Dean babbles nervously as he attempts to deny the accusation.
“We already know,” Jody says kindly, “Ellen called a few days ago and Robert’s just been dying to grill you.”
“I’m an old man. Gossip keeps me young.”
“It’s nothing serious--” Dean starts, eyes darting over at Sam meaningfully and then back at Bobby and Jody.
Jody maneuvers her legs over the edge of the swing and picks Sam up in her arms. “I’m going to put this one to bed. I’ll be back in a bit.” Sam mumbles into her shoulder as they make their way inside.
For a few tense moments, Dean stares at his beer and wonders if there’s a way he could crawl inside the bottle and never emerge. The creaking of the rocking chairs sounds louder than before. Everything is just looking at him.
Jody exits the house and closes the door softly. “He’ll be out for an hour, at most. He just needs some down time.” She sits back on the swing and waits patiently for Dean to speak.
“I haven’t told Sam that I’m kind of dating someone yet,” he rushes out in one large breath.
“Why? Because he’s a man?” Jody says gently.
“Does this have anything to do with John?” Bobby asks knowingly. “He was a Marine but your daddy was a good man.”
“You guys are surprisingly very PFLAG about all this,” Dean stalls.
“We try,” Jody smiles, and nods encouragingly for Dean to continue.
“The whole thing’s a little complicated.” He imagines the soft smile of his mother’s face, the accepting look his father might have given him. If Mary and John were still alive, he has no doubt they would have given him the same treatment. It makes his heart twinge, the dull ache of their passing a constant reminder of his loss.
“Cas is a teacher.”
“Is he a teacher at Sam’s school?” Jody prompts.
Dean laughs nervously. “He is Sam’s teacher.”
---
When it’s time to leave, Jody pulls Dean aside.
“Bring your boy around, we’d love to meet him.” Her eyes light up with a sudden thought. “Better yet, invite him to Thanksgiving dinner. If he can cook a turkey, he’s a keeper.”
“He can’t cook at all,” Dean deadpans.
Jody just laughs and pulls him in for one last hug, straightening his collar with a pat and a smile. Bobby buckles Sam into his booster seat while Dean loads their bags in the trunk. With a final wave, Dean revs the engine of the newly restored Impala and pulls away, toward the main street and back home.
---
A week later, Dean finds himself pressed up against the brick wall of Castiel’s apartment complex. He’s 28 years old, he’s a goddamn professor, and yet here he is shamelessly making out like a horny teenager where the whole street can see.
“Would you like to come up?” Castiel pants into his mouth. Thank god for Cas, Dean silently prays.
“You’re so smart,” Dean responds, dazed.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” and tugs Dean past the coded entry door and up the stairs. “The elevator takes too long,” Castiel explains as he pushes Dean up against his door to kiss him again. Dean fishes Castiel’s pockets for his keys.
“They’re not in my crotch,” Castiel growls, pushing Dean harder against the door.
“My bad,” Dean grins, and Castiel shuts him up with another kiss.
“Mm, mm, doorknob,” Dean manages to get out.
The next door over opens and a gasp is heard. “Charles!”
Castiel pulls away with a groan. “Mrs. Tate, my name is not Charles.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. You look so much like my third husband.”
“I know,” Castiel sighs tiredly.
Mrs. Tate tuts and turns toward the elevator. “Don’t mind me, I’m headed to bingo night at the center. Don’t wait up, Charles!”
An awkward silence dampens the moment.
Dean clears his throat. “So you like to marry little old unsuspecting ladies?”
“Shut up, Dean.”
“Love ‘em and leave ‘em, huh? You casanova, you,” Dean ribs.
“Dean. Shut up.”
---
The frenzied haze dies down temporarily after their run-in with Mrs. Tate, giving them both the opportunity to cool their heads. Castiel leads Dean into his apartment.
“Make yourself at home,” he says as he waves a hand toward the couch. “Would you like something to drink? Water? A beer?”
“A beer would be great,” Dean confirms and Castiel heads to the kitchen. Dean takes a moment to inspect Castiel’s apartment. It’s what he suspected it would look like: spotless and tidy. It’s tastefully decorated, as if the entire place came out of an interior design magazine. Given the way Castiel dresses like a Banana Republic mannequin in a display window, it probably did.
Next to the tray where Cas deposited his keys is a silver frame. The picture is of a young boy, probably no older than 15, mounted on a horse in full gear. Dean leans in closer to inspect the picture. Holy shit, that’s definitely Cas, Dean thinks.
Surprised, he begins to look around the living room in earnest. There are more pictures, some of Castiel with other people, most often a red-headed girl. An old girlfriend perhaps? The thought makes Dean a little jealous. There’s a picture of Castiel’s high school graduation on the wall next to his--
“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. Next to the picture is Castiel’s degree in Education from Oxford freaking University.
“Well don’t just stand there,” Castiel interrupts Dean’s train of thought, carrying two amber bottles, “make yourself comfortable.”
He puts the bottles down on the coffee table (on coasters, Dean notes) and moves to stand behind Dean. He slips his hands under Dean’s jacket and slides them up his chest to slowly remove it. The jacket falls to the floor with a muffled thud.
Dean turns to face Castiel and pins him against the wall, the fervor from before returning full force. Castiel is more than happy to pick up where they left off, losing himself momentarily in Dean’s enthusiastic attention. When Dean’s teeth on his neck draw a low growl from his throat, Castiel moves them toward the couch, pushing Dean until the backs of his knees hit the armrest and he falls onto his back.
The force of the fall fluffs the pillows and dust motes swirl into the air. Castiel climbs on top of Dean, eagerly turning his attention to suck a mark over the pulse point between his neck and shoulder.
Dean feels a tell-tale tickle in his nose and hurriedly pushes Castiel off him as he sits up. “Wait, wait, ah----ah-----” He sneezes loudly. Then he sneezes again.
Castiel hovers over him, perplexed. “Dean, are you okay?”
Dean sniffs. “Do you have any pets?”
“Only Lucy.”
“Please tell me Lucy is an iguana.”
“No, he’s a cat.” Dean sneezes violently. “Oh no, you’re allergic aren’t you?” Dean nods, face scrunched up in anticipation of another sneeze.
“Really allergic.”
Castiel jumps into action. “Let me get you some Benadryl. I try to keep this place clean, but I guess pet dander gets everywhere.” His voice fades as he disappears into the kitchen. He reemerges with a small white bottle. “Here, take two. I’m so sorry, I should have remembered to ask, stupid, stupid--”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean assures him, but his nose is already stuffy, eyes red and watery. He tries to crack a smile. “I bet I look real sexy now, huh?”
“Our curse strikes yet again,” Castiel laughs, but Dean fails to find the humor. They’re both sporting matching boners and Dean’s turned into a disgusting mucus-machine. If Castiel is as affected by the lack of sex in their relationship, he carries it with much more finesse. Dean just wants to cry.
In his next class the following day, he assigns twice the normal amount of reading. A student actually bursts into tears.
---
You know, I do believe we’re cursed, Castiel texts later that night during a commercial break. Lucy is curled on his lap, purring loudly as Castiel scratches behind his ears.
The screen of his phone illuminates the dark room with Dean’s response. shut up saying it makes it real
Castiel laughs and abandons Lucy in lieu of typing out his reply. Lucy looks up and meows in protest. Oh, my apologies. Do you think if I make the opposite statement it’ll come true? He puts the phone down and resumes watching Top Chef.
It’s time for the elimination of a contestant when his phone vibrates against his leg. Lucy flicks an ear in annoyance.
maybe...
Castiel bites his lip and looks over at the window. It’s early evening, but the sun is setting fast, the last streaks of orange fading in the sky like a smothered fire. The days are growing colder and oh-so-perfect for curling around a significant other. If only they could make it happen.
Sudden boldness strikes Castiel, and he types and sends his next message before the more reserved side of his mind can protest.
I want you out of your pants, Winchester.
The next forty minutes of silence on Dean’s end are excruciating. He figured of all people, Dean could appreciate a sexy text, solicited or otherwise. When his phone finally vibrates, the short reply sets his blood aflame.
i found an overnight babysitter for sam.... sir ;)
---
Dean is up and at ‘em before his alarm goes off the next day. Thanks to Jo and her still broken laptop, Dean had managed to convince her to take Sam off his hands for a night. Of course, Jo hadn’t actually needed much wheedling, she’d jumped at the chance to hold onto Sam for longer than a few hours.
“Just don’t braid his hair again; you’re giving him ideas.” Jo had simply laughed.
He’s showered and shaved and pulling up his pants when it strikes him that Sam’s room has been suspiciously quiet. Buttoning his jeans and pulling a belt through the loops, he walks down the hall to Sam’s door and knocks twice.
“Sammy?” At the lack of response, Dean pushes the door open.
Sam is tangled in his blankets and sheets, face flushed with fever and brow wet with sweat. Dean bolts into the room, rearranging the blankets so that Sam is properly tucked in. Sam is briefly exposed to the cold morning air and immediately begins to shiver.
“It’s okay, buddy. I’ve got you.” Dean fetches the first aid kit and pulls out the ear thermometer. The machine beeps. 100.6°F. “Looks like you got yourself a fever, Sammy.”
“I don’t feel good,” he moans in response. Dean pets his hair.
“You rest up. I’m gonna make you soup. Minestrone okay?”
“I’m not hungry.” He burrows himself deeper into his blankets.
“You will be later, but sleep for now, okay?” Dean brushes Sam’s bangs aside and presses a light kiss to his forehead. “Holler if you need anything.”
Sam is already asleep.
---
It figures, Castiel muses with no real ire, that Sam would end up falling ill the day things had finally fallen into place. Dean had been apologetic over the phone, as if Sam’s sickness had been his own doing, for having to postpone their plans.
“I doubt you want to come over while it’s a category 5 germ storm over here,” Dean had joked with a laugh, before adding in earnest, “I’ll make it up to you.”
Castiel notes that Dean had not ruled out the possibility of Castiel coming over, only presented his assumption that Castiel might not want to. The distinction seems important to him, and he mulls over his options on his drive home from work.
He’s three blocks away from his apartment when he decides their plans needn’t be canceled, just altered. He drives right past the complex and continues making his way downtown. He turns onto Massachusetts Street and drives slowly until he spots a toy store.
Parking his car and entering the store, Castiel begins to think about an appropriate get-well present. Sam is ill, so a puzzle or a game would be put off to the side until his recovery. He wanders past a display of miniature sports equipment when his phone vibrates in his pocket.
Castiel eyes his phone warily before pressing the ‘accept’ button and holds the phone up to his ear.
“Hey bro!”
“Gabriel,” he greets politely. He’s genuinely pleased to hear from his normally very busy brother, but still wary of Gabriel’s motives behind the call.
“So a red-headed birdie told me my little bro finally got himself a loverboy.” Red-headed bird-- “Really, Cas? I had to hear it through the grapevine? My feelings are hurt.”
“It’s still a rather new development--?” Castiel admits, furrowing his brow in confusion and surprise. How did Gabriel find out?
“So you don’t deny it,” the A-HA loud and clear. “Finally got yourself a boyfriend, good for you! You’d have gotten laid much sooner had you moved out to California with me--” Castiel scoffs, “but I guess you like your boys midwestern and brawny, which okay, I’ll give you that. All everyone eats over here is tempeh and avocado and let me tell you, there’s just no replacing bacon.”
Wait a minute. “How did Anna find out?” Cas demands.
“You probably shouldn’t keep your phone in your pocket when you’re getting it on, baby bro. You might “accidentally” butt dial your sister while you’re moaning and groaning -- you tiger you!”
“Oh dear lord.” Castiel feels the tips of his ears burn hot and he glances around the store, relieved to find himself virtually alone.
“Personally I think that was a genius way of letting us know you’re dating someone.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose!” he hisses.
“So who is he? What’s he like? How big’s his dick? Anna says you sounded like you were gagging for it.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait! I was just kidding, relax, take that stick out of your ass. Oops, did I say stick? I meant dick.” Castiel pulls his phone away from his ear to glare at it, hoping it will spontaneously burst into flames.
“Goodbye, Gabriel.” Even away from his ear he can hear Gabriel’s loud guffaws turn into a wheezing chuckle as his brother attempts to compose himself.
“Wait, wait, bro--” and it’s as if he knows he has two seconds left, “I CAN’T WAIT TO MEET HIM FOR THANKSGIVING--”
Castiel presses the End Call button and stares as it returns to the home screen. His phone vibrates once as a new text opens.
From Gabriel:
And I’m arriving with Anna! See ya soon, bro!
---
Cas pulls onto Dean’s street and parks in the empty spot in front of the house. He tucks the neatly wrapped present under his arm and rings the doorbell.
A muffled, “Just a minute!” floats through the wood of the door, followed by padded footsteps. The door swings open to reveal Dean wearing an apron. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Cas,” he states dumbly, before he seems to remember what he’s wearing and shrugs by way of explanation. “I’m making soup.”
Castiel holds up the package. “Since Sam is sick, I figured you might need some help.” He lowers his arms. “Besides, we had an appointment, and I thought it’d be in our best interest to honor it.”
The smile that greets him causes Castiel’s stomach to perform olympic flips. Dean’s eyes shine in affection and it’s the same look he gives Sam when Sam says something especially endearing. Castiel has no proper response to the attention so he steps forward and presses his lips against Dean’s. “May I come in?”
“Since you asked,” Dean grins and pulls Castiel into the house by the lapels of his coat. “Did you come here straight from work?” he asks as he hangs Castiel’s coat on the coat rack.
Castiel runs a hand through his untamable hair, and somehow manages to make it worse. “Not exactly,” he motions to the box he set down. “I picked up a small ‘get well’ present for Sam. I hope you don’t mind.”
Dean crowds close to Castiel. “Jesus, Cas, of course I don’t mind.” Castiel mentally preens as he accepts the kisses Dean offers before Dean retreats back to the kitchen with the order to “make yourself at home.”
Castiel takes a moment to wander around the living room. The room is cluttered, but not disorganized. Most of it is a mess of toys that have yet to be put away. It’s fairly obvious a four year-old lives here. There’s a bookshelf in the corner full of textbooks -- Dean’s, he thinks -- and various pictures decorating the mantle. Castiel takes his time looking at each one: pictures of Dean fishing, Dean holding up a large catch next to his beaming father, Dean sitting on the hood of the Impala barely a day over 18, Dean sitting on his mother’s lap smiling broadly.
There’s no lack of Sam pictures, either: Sam crawling toward the photographer with a big toothless smile, Sam banging a large wooden spoon against a pot in the kitchen, Sam holding a small stuffed clown and crying, Sam’s first birthday seated on Dean’s lap reaching for the candle.
The house, Castiel decides, is lovely and full of memories. His sharp eyes, however, don’t miss the empty spots on the wall where frames used to hang, the paint bright and clean compared to the rest of the wall where the sun has eaten away at the color. This house has seen its share of horror and disappointment; this house with its too big walls and its too big rooms, daunting for two small boys struggling to fill it.
“Hey, Cas.” Dean appears in the doorway and breaks him from his dark thoughts. “Come taste this.” Castiel obediently follows Dean into the kitchen. Dean blows gently on a spoon, full to the brim with soup. “Open up.”
Castiel accepts the soup and chews thoughtfully. “Minestrone?” he questions.
Dean turns back to the stove and samples the soup as well. Pleased, he sets the spoon down and turns the heat off. “Sam’s a vegetarian. Well, a pescatarian if you really want to get technical.” He unties the apron and pulls it off, lazily folding it in two and tossing it on the kitchen island. “He’s the pickiest eater I’ve ever met, no idea where he got it. He definitely didn’t get it from me.”
Castiel’s fingers twitch with the impulse to hang the apron next to the others by the back door. “Yes, you do seem like someone with a more voracious appetite.”
“Dude, did you just call me a glutton?”
“Not at all,” Cas replies innocently. “How is Sam doing?”
Dean opens a cabinet and pulls out a lid. “He’s been asleep most of the day, but I’m betting he’s got another hour before I force feed him some soup.” He covers the pot with its lid and turns back toward Cas with a playful glint in his eye.
“So...what do you want to do? There are some great movies on Lifetime--”
---
“My my, what strong thighs you have,” Dean mock-narrates, running his hands slowly up Cas’s thighs and feeling the muscles shift under his palms. Castiel smirks above him and settles more of his weight onto Dean, pressing Dean further into the couch. “Must have been all those years playing rugby during your Oxford days.”
Castiel freezes, loosening the grip of his thighs. “How did you know about that?”
“Lucky guess,” Dean shrugs, using Castiel’s shock to flip them around with ease. “Or maybe I’m a genius. Been putting a lot of little clues together and you know, I think I finally have you pinned.” He emphasizes the last word by pressing his weight against Castiel’s crotch.
“What--”
“You’re a rich boy.”
Castiel scoffs. “Dean, I live in a modest apartment. I’m a school teacher.”
“You also play the piano and the cello, ride horses, play rugby, and oh yeah, went to Oxford,” Dean ticks off on his fingers.
“On a scholarship.” The protest is weak.
“Could you have gone without one?”
Castiel hesitates. “That’s-- that’s a difficult question to answer.”
“A-HA,” Dean cries triumphantly, and begins to mercilessly tickle Castiel. He finds Castiel’s neck is more ticklish than his underarms, but tickling his sides leaves Castiel a squirming, panting mess. Castiel tries to push Dean away, breath coming in short laughing gasps, but there’s no strength in his arms.
“Say uncle,” Dean commands.
“I have no possible relationship with your--”
“Your funeral.”
The tickling stops when Dean starts to ghost his fingers lightly over Castiel’s abdomen. The hands futilely trying to push Dean away instead draw him nearer, and Castiel and Dean kiss and nip at each other before a lull in their impromptu make-out session gives Castiel a chance to speak.
“For the record, we’re not all ‘spoiled babies with trust funds.’”
“Fair, but you still stuck up for Bela,” Dean counters, loosely wrapping his fingers around Castiel’s wrists.
“I stuck up for Sam,” Castiel corrects. “You try sitting by while he cries his eyes out for an hour.”
“I smell favoritism,” Dean sing-songs, lifting Castiel’s still-weak arms over his head and pinning them to the arm of the couch.
“I care deeply about all the students in my charge.”
“Yeah, but you care about Sam more.”
“...There’s no political way for me to answer that. Anyway, you had every right to tell me to mind my own. Why didn’t you?”
Dean stills on top of Castiel, brows lifting at the question. He absent-mindedly rubs his thumbs against the pulse points on Castiel’s wrists, watching Castiel look up at him with wondrous inquiry. Dean swallows and clears his throat.
“I may have overreacted a little. She hit my car and I saw red. I said some...stuff in the heat of the moment, to her and to you. Real shining moment,” he mutters, embarrassed. “Anyway I gave her a call, we duked it out some more, she promised to have her chauffeur drive, I agreed, yadda yadda.” Dean rolls his eyes. “I decided one visit at Ice Queen’s Castle wasn’t going to be the end of the world. Sam told me she even played with him and Ruby, in the muddy yard and everything -- if I didn’t hate her so much, I’d say she’s alright.”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
“Oh, I’m straining all right.” Dean lowers his hips to Castiel’s, rubbing his denim-clad erection against Castiel’s chinos. Castiel lets out a groan and Dean licks his lips.
“Then there’s this guy,” he trails off with a grin.
A lazy smile appears on Castiel’s face. “Oh?” he prompts, lifting his hips in search of more friction.
Dean tightens his grip on Castiel’s wrists. “And I really, really want to get into his pants.”
---
Since Sam is asleep, things heat up quickly. Dean tries to pause long enough to turn on the television in hopes it will drown out any questionable sounds, but Castiel keeps distracting him by nipping at his neck. He finally manages to press the red power button and the television comes to life, presenting a Dr. Sexy, M.D. marathon in full HD glory. Horrified, Dean drops the remote and it tumbles under the coffee table. A mouth on his neck jerks him out of his sudden shock.
“I’ve, uh,” he mumbles between kisses, “I’ve never actually seen this show--”
“I don’t care.” Dean’s yanked back down, and okay bossy, before Castiel kisses him soundly. Dean relishes in the warmth of his mouth, the feel of Cas’s tongue slipping against his own.
“This is about where we left off last time,” Dean smirks, tugging Castiel’s shirt out of his pants, rubbing his thumbs in circles over sharp hipbones.
“Actually,” Castiel points out, lifting onto his elbows and mouthing along Dean’s jaw, “this,” he tumbles them off the couch and onto the carpeted floor, trapping Dean once again underneath him, “is where we left off last time. Pinned, on your back, and right where I want you.” And damn if that didn’t turn Dean on even more.
They stare at each other silently, both panting, before Castiel says hurriedly, “I’m so sorry, did I hurt you--”
“A little, I kinda liked it though--”
“Did you hit your head--”
“Cas, it’s cool--ow--”
“--Dean?” calls out a weak voice from upstairs.
“Sam.” They both realize in unison before scrambling up. Castiel grabs Sam’s get-well present and follows Dean up the stairs.
---
“Hey, kiddo. How you feeling?” Sam looks over at Dean and coughs pathetically, squirming in his cocoon of blankets to release a hand to beckon Dean closer. Dean sits on the edge of the bed, checking Sam’s temperature with his hand. “You have a visitor, buddy. Can he come in?”
Sam turns his head toward the doorway and sees Cas leaning on the door jamb.
Sam stares at Cas and then looks back at Dean. “Am I in trouble?”
Cas laughs and stands a few feet away from the bed. “No, Sam. I came by to give you a get-well present, but Dean made me promise you can’t open it until you have a bowl of soup.”
Sam scowls and burrows back into his blankets. “‘m not hungry.”
“Just one small bowl,” Dean barters.
Sam huffs, bangs lifting off his forehead with the released breath. “You always say one and then you make me eat more,” he whines.
Castiel sets the present on the nightstand and settles down next to Dean. “I bet you feel really crummy, being sick and stuck in bed all day.”
“Yeah,” Sam sniffs, mucus running down his nose. Dean holds a tissue to Sam’s nose with a soft command of, “blow.”
“I bet you’d rather be playing with your toys downstairs.”
Sam nods sadly, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.
“Too bad you don’t want soup,” Dean tuts, “it wants to help you fight off this cold.”
“It does?”
Dean nods, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, “Soup is very powerful, very old magic.”
Cas frowns at the back of Dean’s head.
“Is that true?” Sam turns to Cas for confirmation, enraptured by the new knowledge.
“Actually--” Dean subtly elbows him in the side, “--yes. It’s a very, uh, very well kept secret.” He squints his eyes and nods sagely.
“I want to play,” Sam whines at Dean desperately.
Dean grins, victorious. “Should I bring you some soup?”
There’s a brief shuffle while Dean brings the soup. Cas pulls a red wooden chair from a corner of the room and places it by the head of the bed, next to the nightstand. When Dean returns, he hands the bowl to Cas while he settles on the bed. Sam climbs onto his lap and refuses the proffered bowl from Cas.
He looks up at Dean and says simply, “You do it.”
Dean rolls his eyes but takes the bowl from Cas and proceeds to spoon-feed Sam, making the occasional airplane sound that leaves Sam in peals of laughter.
The soup is halfway done, but Sam turns his head at the next spoonful to look eagerly at Cas. “Mister Milton, can I have my present now?”
Castiel looks at Dean for permission, and at Dean’s nod, he takes the box off the nightstand and begins to unwrap the bow.
“Close your eyes and hold out your hands,” Castiel instructs. Sam’s arms shoot out obediently, hands cupped in anticipation.
“You’re totally peeking, you little cheater!” Dean laughs, placing a hand over Sam’s eyes.
Sam giggles and makes a grabbing motion with his hands.
“I brought you a new friend,” Castiel says as he places a large, floppy moose plush toy in Sam’s hands. “You can look now.”
Sam gasps. “It’s a moose!!” He hugs it tight to his chest and shakes excitedly. “I’ve never had a moose before. What does he eat?”
“Well, funny that you ask because...” Cas pulls out a thin book from the mess of tissue paper inside the box, “I also brought you this.” He presents the book to Sam, who bounces in delight.
“Storytime!!”
Cas smiles fondly at Sam. “I’ll read it if you keep up the good work and finish your bowl of soup.”
Sam nods and opens his mouth for another spoonful. Dean feels his chest swell with warmth at Sam and Cas’s interaction. It’s plain to see that Sam adores Castiel, and Dean is beginning to suspect that so might he.
Dean clears his throat and kisses the top of Sam’s head.
Castiel props open the book on his lap and begins to read softly to the two boys listening attentively on the bed. “If you give a moose a muffin, he’ll want some jam to go with it...”
---
END PART 4
Rating: PG-13
Genre: AU
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: none, it’s an AU!
Warnings: schmoop, adorable kid!Sam, allergies, sexually frustrated Dean
Word Count: 8,537
Summary: October’s here, midterms are around the corner, and Dean has a bad case of the “blues.” Part 4 in the Once Upon a Wendigo Verse.
Author’s Note: We’ve taken all your feedback and constructive criticism to heart. We’ve made a very minor edit to the previous part -- Bela does not drive Sam and Ruby home, her chaffeur does, but she does load the kids into her car. Any disagreements with the characters and their actions/arguments/decisions is okay in our book. We really appreciate your feedback -- we want to write a good story! ♥
A chilly October morning finds the Winchester brothers in the kitchen having pancakes for breakfast. While Dean pours the batter onto the hot griddle, Sam enjoys a bowl of fresh fruit and the first pancakes of the batch.
Sam waves his empty bowl in the air. “More apples, Dean!”
“What do we say?”
“Please,” Sam says automatically, then returns to his millionth retelling of his playdate with Ruby. “And Dean the puppies were so soft and their tongues were wet and they tickled because they gave me a lot of kisses. Ruby says they give you kisses when they like you and they liked me a lot. And when you came to pick me up they cried like this--” He whines high in his throat, imitating the dogs, “and my heart felt like this--” Sam pulls his arms and legs close to his chest in a perfect imitation of a clenching heart before popping back to his full seated height on the kitchen stool.
“Really,” Dean replies, navigating around the kitchen and dropping a handful of apple slices into Sam’s bowl.
“Yeah,” Sam confirms. “But Ruby’s mama told me I could come back whenever I wanted. Ruby’s mama was so nice, she told the cook, she said, ‘Cook, make him a veggie lasagna.’ How did she know I like that?” He throws out his arms in disbelief, his right hand gripping his fork tightly while syrup drips off the end and onto his sleeve. “And I ate it and the puppies ate some too because they have these big eyes and they look at you like this--”
Dean flips the last few pancakes on top of their communal stack and takes a seat next to Sam at the kitchen island.
“Dean you’re not looking!”
“I’m looking, I’m looking.”
Sam has told his story so many times Dean knows exactly when to nod and look impressed. Sam continues to gesticulate wildly with his fork, managing to fling half-chewed bits of pancake onto Dean’s clean shirt. He’s glad Sam is happy; his happiness is all Dean needs to know he made the right decision about the playdate. He’d felt a little bullied into it by an irritated, hot, and defensive teacher, an exchange that in Dean’s mind still feels off. Dean’s thoughts keep probing at the memory of their heated discussion -- Dean refuses to call it a fight -- incessantly, like a tongue poking at a loose tooth.
Other than that mishap, things with Cas are good, great even. They’ve managed to go on several dates since their chance encounter outside the bookstore -- but to his dismay, they’d never get very far. Dean is beginning to realize why married people with children never get laid again, and he’s at the point where he can wax poetic about his sexual frustration.
He continues to think about the sorry state of his sex life even after dropping Sam off at school and heading to work. He pauses with the key in the lock to his office as his eyes fall on the office hours sign-up sheet he pinned to a small corkboard on his door. Every slot is filled, with one brave student jotting her name down under the last slot with an underlined and bolded PLEASE.
Dean enters his classroom ten minutes later and throws his bag onto his desk with a loud thump. His students jump in their seats and all side conversations cease immediately. One brave, possibly stupid, soul raises his hand with trepidation.
“Uh, professor?”
“What,” Dean grunts.
The student winces. “We were just wondering, um, about our midterm? We wanted to know what to expect...?”
Dean sighs and purses his lips. “Well, I was thinking of giving a short-answer midterm, three to five questions,” he says, surveying the room, when his eyes fall on a student wearing a hoodie the same shade as Cas’s eyes.
And the same color as your balls, his brain helpfully supplies in a voice that sounds vaguely like Jo.
“But you know what, I changed my mind and the midterm is a ten-page comparative paper--” the class yelps in protest, “--on any two texts we’ve read in class plus a text of your choice.”
His class mumbles, resigned to their fate. Two boys look close to tears. The boy on the right is wearing a Team Edward t-shirt. Oh hell no.
"Any and all references to Twilight will give you an automatic F." The class groans. "Yeah life is hard. I don't want to hear it."
Class goes on as usual, and if someone whispers behind his back that he needs to get laid, he makes no show of having heard it.
---
Halfway through the week and another day with back-to-back office hours, Dean finds a chance to eat his lunch. He bites into his sandwich, peanut butter no jelly because he ran late this morning, and wipes the crumbs off his desk. He’s expecting one more student before he can finally call it a day.
A smear of peanut butter finds its way onto his cheek when there’s a knock at the door. He swallows the half-chewed chunk of sandwich and coughs out a “Come in!”
The university’s resident writer shuffles in, looking every bit the disheveled novelist.
“Hey, Chuck.” Dean gestures at the chair on the other side of the desk, but Chuck nervously declines.
“Hey, Dean,” he greets. “Got a minute?”
Dean places his sandwich on a napkin. “Uh, sure. What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you could give my manuscript a once over?” The manuscript in question is being bent and twisted in Chuck’s hands, the edges curled with the moisture of sweaty palms. “I’m having difficulty with the writing and I need someone’s opinion. Someone besides Crowley, that is,” he says, handing the manuscript over to Dean’s outstretched hand.
Dean laughs, short and loud, at the image of the Head of the English department sneering at Chuck’s work. “I can’t imagine what he thought of it.”
“He said I have no sense of poetry.” Chuck ruffles his hair agitatedly. “But I’m not writing poetry?”
“Pretty sure that’s not what he meant, Chuck.” Dean flips through the manuscript idly, pausing to read a paragraph before closing the pages and nodding. “But yeah, I’ll read it.”
“You will?” Chuck squeaks, then composes himself. “Thanks, I really owe you one.”
“I’ll be honest though, I probably won’t get around to reading this for a while.”
“Take your time. I need a break, the whole thing’s been giving me migraines like you wouldn’t believe.” With a sigh of relief, Chuck allows himself to sink into the chair opposite Dean, the picture of boneless relaxation. “So how are midterms treating you?”
Dean groans. “I’m going to have to read thirty 10-page comparative papers because apparently I’m a masochist as well as a sadist.”
“Yikes, really shooting yourself in the foot there.” Chuck spots a framed picture of a little baby barely taking his first steps. “How’s Sam?”
“He started kindergarten last month,” Dean states simply, but the undercurrent of pride rings loud and clear.
“Next thing you know he’ll be another student in your class,” Chuck jokes.
Dean bristles at the thought. The horror must show on his face because Chuck throws his head back and laughs.
“You can’t stop Sam from growing up, Dean. It’s not like Pokemon where you love your pet so much you never let it evolve.” Dean scowls. Chuck ploughs on. “They do that in the real world, you know? We love baby cows so much we stick them in crates so they can’t grow and then we call them veal.”
“Except Sam is not on the menu du jour, asshat.” Dean angles the picture frame to face him. “I just want him to take his time growing up, is all.”
A persistent knock on the door breaks the moment.
“Oh man, you still have office hours! Shoot, I’ll get out of your hair.” Chuck stands to open the door and a flurry of wild blonde hair enters as he slips out of the office. “See you later, Dean!”
Dean nods as he polishes off the rest of his sandwich in one disgusting bite, manners be damned.
“Thanks for seeing me, Professor. I know you’re technically off the clock now so I’ll be quick. I just have some ideas for this paper I want to run by you-- oh, you have some peanut butter right there on your cheek.”
Dean lifts a hand to investigate. His fingers come away sticky. “Son of a-- Thanks, Becky.”
---
On his way to pick up Sam from school, Dean gets a phone call from Bobby. The Impala’s repairs are nearly done and she’ll be up and running by Friday afternoon. It’s the best news he’s had all week.
“So how about you and Sam come over for the weekend?” Bobby suggests.
Dean runs the option by Sam on the ride home, who gets so excited by their weekend plans that the second the front door swings open Sam rushes to his room to begin packing.
“No running,” Dean reminds with a sigh, but Sam’s already tumbling into his room. A thump follows shortly after.
“I’m okay!” Sam reports, pushing himself upright and pulling his small duffel from his closet.
He zips open the bag and places it on the floor in the middle of the room. He needs to pack the essentials. He pulls a few of Mr. Milton’s books off the shelf and puts them in his duffel bag first. Next he grabs a tin of green army men. They need enemies to fight against so he throws in his collection of plastic dinosaurs Aunt Jody gave him for Christmas. And in case the dinosaurs get hungry he throws in the rubber food from the mini kitchen Dean bought him when Sam wanted to run his own restaurant just like Aunt Ellen.
He’s zipping up the bag when he spots the box of legos under his bed.
---
Multiple thumps make their way down the stairs and Dean glances wearily down the hall. “Sam?”
Sam’s voice filters up from the first floor. “I can’t lift it.”
“What do you mean you can’t--” Dean stops short at the sight of Sam pushing his bag down the stairs. He picks up Sam with one arm and stoops to pick up the abused bag sitting innocently at the bottom of the staircase.
The bag is heavier than anticipated and fit to bursting. “Mind if I check your bag?”
“I packed just like you taught me.” Sam puffs his chest proudly.
Dean tugs on the zip and it flies open. A few toy cars tumble out of the bag and fall with a clatter on the floor. The duffel is stuffed with a sample of nearly all of Sam’s toys. A condensed battalion of army men, only the carnivorous dinosaurs, and oddly enough, just the vegetables from Sam’s kitchenette. A few of Cas’s books peek up from the bottom of the bag. Dean is almost not surprised by the fact that there is not a single article of clothing in sight.
“Do you really need to take all your dinosaurs?”
“Not all of them,” Sam protests. “I left three on my bed.”
Dean goes for a different tactic. “What are the rules for packing?”
“‘Pack only what you need’,” Sam recites by heart. “Dean I need them!”
---
Castiel sits on a chair at the front of the classroom, his enlarged copy of Stuck propped open on his lap. The students sit in two staggered rows forming semi-circles around him. The absurdity of the protagonist's actions has the entire class in stitches; even Kevin, who is preparing materials for quiet time, finds himself laughing alongside the four-year olds.
“Now wasn’t Floyd so silly?” Castiel asks. The students giggle in agreement. “What would you do if your kite were stuck in a tree?”
“I’d ask my mommy to get it down,” Ben volunteers.
“I’d ask Dean,” Sam pipes in.
“Why not ask your mommy?” Ed asks, peering at Sam from behind his thick glasses.
“I don’t have a mommy,” Sam blinks. “I have a Dean.”
Castiel is quick to redirect the conversation from potentially dangerous and triggering questions, then leads the students into quiet time. He makes a mental note to dedicate a class lesson or two on Diverse Families. It’s an important dialogue to introduce, especially before Mother’s Day and Father’s Day roll around.
The students separate themselves into two groups for quiet time. Castiel dims the lights and plays classical music softly in the background for the students who like to nap. For the students who stay awake, he encourages them to write or draw quietly. Kevin distributes sheets of paper and crayons.
The day ends on a musical note, Castiel leading the kids through a round robin of “Frère Jacques.” When the school bell rings announcing the end of the day, the students walk (“Calmly,” Castiel reminds) to the coat closet to collect their effects. The students filter out of the classroom onto the schoolyard to play while they wait to be picked up.
Castiel picks up a discarded sweater and peers inside the material for a name tag. Harry, it reads. Castiel clicks his tongue and hangs it back in the coat closet to be collected tomorrow.
The blocky calendar in the corner counts down the days to their next field trip to a pumpkin patch. He wonders if he knows any songs about Halloween, and vaguely recalls Five Little Pumpkins. The nursery rhyme has no accompanying music, but perhaps he can just make up a melody, he decides, and sits back down at the piano to pluck out a tune.
He begins by playfully tinkering at the keyed instrument, memories of a younger version of himself laboring away on the piano bench with Michael’s gentle coaching in his ear. A particular chord progression reminds him of an old favorite of his, and before he knows it Castiel is halfway through Chopin’s Etude Op. 10 No. 3.
“Sam mentioned you play the piano,” Dean says suddenly from over his shoulder, and Castiel hastily closes the lid over the keys with a snap. “But I didn’t realize you play the piano.”
“Just a little,” Castiel says humbly.
“Don’t be modest,” Dean coaxes, pulling up a chair and propping up the lid. “Come on, play me something, Amadeus.”
“Do you like Chopin?” Castiel begins to play a piece that sounds vaguely familiar to Dean before stopping. “I much prefer the cello,” he admits.
“The cello,” Dean repeats, filing the information away. Castiel turns on the piano bench to face him.
“Hello, Dean.”
There’s entirely too much space between them, Dean decides, and leans in to bridge the gap with a kiss.
“Hey,” Dean grins prettily at him. Castiel’s stomach flutters in response.
“Are we still on for this weekend?”
“Actually,” Dean’s tone is apologetic, “raincheck? I’m going up to Salina this weekend; I’m getting my baby back.”
“Just when I was getting used to you in that sexy Jeep,” Castiel pouts, placing a hand on Dean’s knee.
“Jeep Libertys are not sexy,” Dean makes a face, not noticing the hand slowly creeping up his thigh, “they’re mom cars.”
“I read on a culture blog that they are very popular with lesbians,” Castiel reports with a straight face.
“That’s it, I’m leaving.” Dean gets up and makes to leave but Castiel snags his sleeve.
“I’m kidding,” Castiel laughs, pushing himself off the bench. “Well, no I really did read that, but-- travel safely,” he tells Dean seriously, petting the side of his face fondly and kissing him again.
Dean rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I’m guaranteed to get there safely, I’ve just been blessed by an angel.”
Castiel sputters, choking on the sheer amount of cheese, before Dean’s grin turns into a leer. “If only I could be touched by one, too.”
“When you find out what that feels like, you let me know,” Castiel deadpans as he nudges Dean out the door.
“You’ll know when I know,” Dean promises with a growl, but still finds himself outside the classroom without even a kiss goodbye. Tease. “You’ll be the end of me,” he mutters while a smile threatens to split his face. He goes to collect Sam with a spring in his step.
---
“Okay, so what happens tomorrow?” Dean asks as he pulls the blanket up to Sam’s chin.
“I go to school!”
“That’s right. Then I’m gonna pick you up, we’ll have lunch, and then we’ll go to Bobby’s.” Sam titters excitedly. “But we can’t go if you don’t go to sleep.”
Sam stills, snuggling himself deeper into his thick comforter. “Okay. Story?”
“Alright,” Dean smiles, sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed. He reaches for his new favorite book and turns to the first page. “If you give a mouse a cookie,” he begins, watching as Sam listens attentively, “he’s probably going to ask for a glass of milk...”
---
Dean pulls off the I-70 sometime around six and pulls up to Bobby and Jody’s front door ten minutes later. They must hear the crunch of gravel as Dean pulls into the driveway because Jody has the door open before Sam’s even out of his booster seat.
“Aunt Jody!” Sam squeals before attaching himself to her leg. He looks up at her adoringly and squeezes her leg tight. “I brought you and Uncle Bobby a present.”
“Save it for after dessert. Go wash up, I made your favorite: macaroni and cheese.” Sam gasps and disappears inside. They both hear the moment he runs into Bobby. “Uncle Bobby!”
“Hey, Sheriff,” Dean greets.
“Oh come’re, you,” she says fondly, standing on her toes and pulling Dean in for a hug. “You go wash up, too. Here, give me your bags.”
“No, I got them.”
“Then you know where to put them.” She closes the door behind Dean, nudging at a corner of the entrance mat to lie flat again. Dean can already smell the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen. His stomach growls loudly.
“Nothing like a home cooked meal, huh?” Jody laughs.
Dinner is a raucous affair, made more lively by the generous portions of food and the delicious beer Bobby brews in the basement. Sam loses his fork mid-meal and eats his food with his hands. Dean frowns and looks ready to scold, but Bobby chides, “You ain’t the king of manners yourself, just let the boy eat.”
The flank steak is tender and amazing, and Dean helps himself to two servings. Sam looks on, intrigued, but shakes his head emphatically when Bobby offers him a bite. Jody gets up to refresh everyone’s drinks and returns with a can of sparkling cranberry juice for Sam. She pulls back the tab with a pop and a fizz and places a drinking straw in the can.
“Sippy!” Sam demands with huge puppy eyes.
“Sorry, sweetie, you’re a big boy now. Big boys drink from straws.” Jody is gentle, but her tone brooks no argument.
Sam pouts, but his lips close obediently around the straw and he reluctantly takes a drink.
Just as Dean announces he can’t eat another bite, Jody excuses herself to pull a cherry pie out of the oven.
“I take that back,” Dean amends quickly, sitting up from his slumped position on his chair.
“I’ll be right back,” Sam says as he climbs down from his chair and runs up the stairs.
Bobby takes this opportunity to talk shop. “Your car’s ready and fully paid for,” he reports. “She runs like a dream.”
“Awesome,” Dean replies and tilts his beer in salute.
Sam comes back waving a manila folder and holds it out to Jody before climbing onto Bobby’s lap.
“Now what are these?” Jody asks, opening the folder. “Oh my go-- Robert, look at this.” Bobby leans over and pulls his glasses out of his breast pocket.
“I painted them!”
“Good to know you’ve been reading that book I gave ya,” Bobby nods approvingly.
“Look at this shapeshifter,” Jody exclaims.
“Nah, that’s a skinwalker,” Bobby corrects, “look at the coyote mouth starting to form.”
Sam points impatiently at the next painting. “Look at the vampires!”
“They have more teeth than that,” Bobby critiques.
“I ran out of room,” Sam admits.
Jody shuffles through the paintings adoringly. “Which is your favorite, Dean?” she asks.
“The wendigo,” he smiles. “It’s back at the house, on the fridge.”
---
The next day Sam follows Jody around the house like a faithful duckling while Dean and Bobby go over paperwork for the Impala’s repairs. Bobby reviews the list of damage repaired and his eyes narrow in suspicion as Dean nods along, completely unfazed. In fact, Dean’s been downright chipper the entire weekend. Not that he’s not allowed to be in a good mood, but considering Dean’s anger the last time he’d been around, the complete turnaround in his attitude sets off Bobby’s alarms. He sets aside his questions for the time being.
After lunch, the rag-tag family wanders out to the porch to soak up some sun. It’s early afternoon, just past one, and the sun is still high over Salina.
Jody sits long-ways on the porch swing, and Sam hops on and settles between the vee of her legs, his back to her chest. They sway slightly in the breeze, nearly rocking in time with the rocking chairs where Bobby and Dean have settled. It’s quiet, and warm, and Sam nearly nods off several times.
Dean’s phone chirps obnoxiously and he scrambles to pull it out of his pocket. A grin appears on his face when he looks at the screen, and after furiously typing out a response to the text, he slips the phone back in his pocket. He takes a sip from his beer in an attempt to hide his smile.
Bobby breaks.
“Well you’re not gonna just come out and say it, so let’s hear it. What crawled up your ass and found your prostate?”
“Robert!” Jody hisses, covering Sam’s ears.
“Robert!” Sam repeats, sleepily.
Dean gapes and struggles to answer.
“I know all the signs,” Bobby ploughs on, “so no use trying to pull the wool over my eyes. I may be old, but I’m not blind. So who is it?”
“I, uh, that was,” Dean babbles nervously as he attempts to deny the accusation.
“We already know,” Jody says kindly, “Ellen called a few days ago and Robert’s just been dying to grill you.”
“I’m an old man. Gossip keeps me young.”
“It’s nothing serious--” Dean starts, eyes darting over at Sam meaningfully and then back at Bobby and Jody.
Jody maneuvers her legs over the edge of the swing and picks Sam up in her arms. “I’m going to put this one to bed. I’ll be back in a bit.” Sam mumbles into her shoulder as they make their way inside.
For a few tense moments, Dean stares at his beer and wonders if there’s a way he could crawl inside the bottle and never emerge. The creaking of the rocking chairs sounds louder than before. Everything is just looking at him.
Jody exits the house and closes the door softly. “He’ll be out for an hour, at most. He just needs some down time.” She sits back on the swing and waits patiently for Dean to speak.
“I haven’t told Sam that I’m kind of dating someone yet,” he rushes out in one large breath.
“Why? Because he’s a man?” Jody says gently.
“Does this have anything to do with John?” Bobby asks knowingly. “He was a Marine but your daddy was a good man.”
“You guys are surprisingly very PFLAG about all this,” Dean stalls.
“We try,” Jody smiles, and nods encouragingly for Dean to continue.
“The whole thing’s a little complicated.” He imagines the soft smile of his mother’s face, the accepting look his father might have given him. If Mary and John were still alive, he has no doubt they would have given him the same treatment. It makes his heart twinge, the dull ache of their passing a constant reminder of his loss.
“Cas is a teacher.”
“Is he a teacher at Sam’s school?” Jody prompts.
Dean laughs nervously. “He is Sam’s teacher.”
---
When it’s time to leave, Jody pulls Dean aside.
“Bring your boy around, we’d love to meet him.” Her eyes light up with a sudden thought. “Better yet, invite him to Thanksgiving dinner. If he can cook a turkey, he’s a keeper.”
“He can’t cook at all,” Dean deadpans.
Jody just laughs and pulls him in for one last hug, straightening his collar with a pat and a smile. Bobby buckles Sam into his booster seat while Dean loads their bags in the trunk. With a final wave, Dean revs the engine of the newly restored Impala and pulls away, toward the main street and back home.
---
A week later, Dean finds himself pressed up against the brick wall of Castiel’s apartment complex. He’s 28 years old, he’s a goddamn professor, and yet here he is shamelessly making out like a horny teenager where the whole street can see.
“Would you like to come up?” Castiel pants into his mouth. Thank god for Cas, Dean silently prays.
“You’re so smart,” Dean responds, dazed.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” and tugs Dean past the coded entry door and up the stairs. “The elevator takes too long,” Castiel explains as he pushes Dean up against his door to kiss him again. Dean fishes Castiel’s pockets for his keys.
“They’re not in my crotch,” Castiel growls, pushing Dean harder against the door.
“My bad,” Dean grins, and Castiel shuts him up with another kiss.
“Mm, mm, doorknob,” Dean manages to get out.
The next door over opens and a gasp is heard. “Charles!”
Castiel pulls away with a groan. “Mrs. Tate, my name is not Charles.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. You look so much like my third husband.”
“I know,” Castiel sighs tiredly.
Mrs. Tate tuts and turns toward the elevator. “Don’t mind me, I’m headed to bingo night at the center. Don’t wait up, Charles!”
An awkward silence dampens the moment.
Dean clears his throat. “So you like to marry little old unsuspecting ladies?”
“Shut up, Dean.”
“Love ‘em and leave ‘em, huh? You casanova, you,” Dean ribs.
“Dean. Shut up.”
---
The frenzied haze dies down temporarily after their run-in with Mrs. Tate, giving them both the opportunity to cool their heads. Castiel leads Dean into his apartment.
“Make yourself at home,” he says as he waves a hand toward the couch. “Would you like something to drink? Water? A beer?”
“A beer would be great,” Dean confirms and Castiel heads to the kitchen. Dean takes a moment to inspect Castiel’s apartment. It’s what he suspected it would look like: spotless and tidy. It’s tastefully decorated, as if the entire place came out of an interior design magazine. Given the way Castiel dresses like a Banana Republic mannequin in a display window, it probably did.
Next to the tray where Cas deposited his keys is a silver frame. The picture is of a young boy, probably no older than 15, mounted on a horse in full gear. Dean leans in closer to inspect the picture. Holy shit, that’s definitely Cas, Dean thinks.
Surprised, he begins to look around the living room in earnest. There are more pictures, some of Castiel with other people, most often a red-headed girl. An old girlfriend perhaps? The thought makes Dean a little jealous. There’s a picture of Castiel’s high school graduation on the wall next to his--
“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. Next to the picture is Castiel’s degree in Education from Oxford freaking University.
“Well don’t just stand there,” Castiel interrupts Dean’s train of thought, carrying two amber bottles, “make yourself comfortable.”
He puts the bottles down on the coffee table (on coasters, Dean notes) and moves to stand behind Dean. He slips his hands under Dean’s jacket and slides them up his chest to slowly remove it. The jacket falls to the floor with a muffled thud.
Dean turns to face Castiel and pins him against the wall, the fervor from before returning full force. Castiel is more than happy to pick up where they left off, losing himself momentarily in Dean’s enthusiastic attention. When Dean’s teeth on his neck draw a low growl from his throat, Castiel moves them toward the couch, pushing Dean until the backs of his knees hit the armrest and he falls onto his back.
The force of the fall fluffs the pillows and dust motes swirl into the air. Castiel climbs on top of Dean, eagerly turning his attention to suck a mark over the pulse point between his neck and shoulder.
Dean feels a tell-tale tickle in his nose and hurriedly pushes Castiel off him as he sits up. “Wait, wait, ah----ah-----” He sneezes loudly. Then he sneezes again.
Castiel hovers over him, perplexed. “Dean, are you okay?”
Dean sniffs. “Do you have any pets?”
“Only Lucy.”
“Please tell me Lucy is an iguana.”
“No, he’s a cat.” Dean sneezes violently. “Oh no, you’re allergic aren’t you?” Dean nods, face scrunched up in anticipation of another sneeze.
“Really allergic.”
Castiel jumps into action. “Let me get you some Benadryl. I try to keep this place clean, but I guess pet dander gets everywhere.” His voice fades as he disappears into the kitchen. He reemerges with a small white bottle. “Here, take two. I’m so sorry, I should have remembered to ask, stupid, stupid--”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean assures him, but his nose is already stuffy, eyes red and watery. He tries to crack a smile. “I bet I look real sexy now, huh?”
“Our curse strikes yet again,” Castiel laughs, but Dean fails to find the humor. They’re both sporting matching boners and Dean’s turned into a disgusting mucus-machine. If Castiel is as affected by the lack of sex in their relationship, he carries it with much more finesse. Dean just wants to cry.
In his next class the following day, he assigns twice the normal amount of reading. A student actually bursts into tears.
---
You know, I do believe we’re cursed, Castiel texts later that night during a commercial break. Lucy is curled on his lap, purring loudly as Castiel scratches behind his ears.
The screen of his phone illuminates the dark room with Dean’s response. shut up saying it makes it real
Castiel laughs and abandons Lucy in lieu of typing out his reply. Lucy looks up and meows in protest. Oh, my apologies. Do you think if I make the opposite statement it’ll come true? He puts the phone down and resumes watching Top Chef.
It’s time for the elimination of a contestant when his phone vibrates against his leg. Lucy flicks an ear in annoyance.
maybe...
Castiel bites his lip and looks over at the window. It’s early evening, but the sun is setting fast, the last streaks of orange fading in the sky like a smothered fire. The days are growing colder and oh-so-perfect for curling around a significant other. If only they could make it happen.
Sudden boldness strikes Castiel, and he types and sends his next message before the more reserved side of his mind can protest.
I want you out of your pants, Winchester.
The next forty minutes of silence on Dean’s end are excruciating. He figured of all people, Dean could appreciate a sexy text, solicited or otherwise. When his phone finally vibrates, the short reply sets his blood aflame.
i found an overnight babysitter for sam.... sir ;)
---
Dean is up and at ‘em before his alarm goes off the next day. Thanks to Jo and her still broken laptop, Dean had managed to convince her to take Sam off his hands for a night. Of course, Jo hadn’t actually needed much wheedling, she’d jumped at the chance to hold onto Sam for longer than a few hours.
“Just don’t braid his hair again; you’re giving him ideas.” Jo had simply laughed.
He’s showered and shaved and pulling up his pants when it strikes him that Sam’s room has been suspiciously quiet. Buttoning his jeans and pulling a belt through the loops, he walks down the hall to Sam’s door and knocks twice.
“Sammy?” At the lack of response, Dean pushes the door open.
Sam is tangled in his blankets and sheets, face flushed with fever and brow wet with sweat. Dean bolts into the room, rearranging the blankets so that Sam is properly tucked in. Sam is briefly exposed to the cold morning air and immediately begins to shiver.
“It’s okay, buddy. I’ve got you.” Dean fetches the first aid kit and pulls out the ear thermometer. The machine beeps. 100.6°F. “Looks like you got yourself a fever, Sammy.”
“I don’t feel good,” he moans in response. Dean pets his hair.
“You rest up. I’m gonna make you soup. Minestrone okay?”
“I’m not hungry.” He burrows himself deeper into his blankets.
“You will be later, but sleep for now, okay?” Dean brushes Sam’s bangs aside and presses a light kiss to his forehead. “Holler if you need anything.”
Sam is already asleep.
---
It figures, Castiel muses with no real ire, that Sam would end up falling ill the day things had finally fallen into place. Dean had been apologetic over the phone, as if Sam’s sickness had been his own doing, for having to postpone their plans.
“I doubt you want to come over while it’s a category 5 germ storm over here,” Dean had joked with a laugh, before adding in earnest, “I’ll make it up to you.”
Castiel notes that Dean had not ruled out the possibility of Castiel coming over, only presented his assumption that Castiel might not want to. The distinction seems important to him, and he mulls over his options on his drive home from work.
He’s three blocks away from his apartment when he decides their plans needn’t be canceled, just altered. He drives right past the complex and continues making his way downtown. He turns onto Massachusetts Street and drives slowly until he spots a toy store.
Parking his car and entering the store, Castiel begins to think about an appropriate get-well present. Sam is ill, so a puzzle or a game would be put off to the side until his recovery. He wanders past a display of miniature sports equipment when his phone vibrates in his pocket.
Castiel eyes his phone warily before pressing the ‘accept’ button and holds the phone up to his ear.
“Hey bro!”
“Gabriel,” he greets politely. He’s genuinely pleased to hear from his normally very busy brother, but still wary of Gabriel’s motives behind the call.
“So a red-headed birdie told me my little bro finally got himself a loverboy.” Red-headed bird-- “Really, Cas? I had to hear it through the grapevine? My feelings are hurt.”
“It’s still a rather new development--?” Castiel admits, furrowing his brow in confusion and surprise. How did Gabriel find out?
“So you don’t deny it,” the A-HA loud and clear. “Finally got yourself a boyfriend, good for you! You’d have gotten laid much sooner had you moved out to California with me--” Castiel scoffs, “but I guess you like your boys midwestern and brawny, which okay, I’ll give you that. All everyone eats over here is tempeh and avocado and let me tell you, there’s just no replacing bacon.”
Wait a minute. “How did Anna find out?” Cas demands.
“You probably shouldn’t keep your phone in your pocket when you’re getting it on, baby bro. You might “accidentally” butt dial your sister while you’re moaning and groaning -- you tiger you!”
“Oh dear lord.” Castiel feels the tips of his ears burn hot and he glances around the store, relieved to find himself virtually alone.
“Personally I think that was a genius way of letting us know you’re dating someone.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose!” he hisses.
“So who is he? What’s he like? How big’s his dick? Anna says you sounded like you were gagging for it.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait! I was just kidding, relax, take that stick out of your ass. Oops, did I say stick? I meant dick.” Castiel pulls his phone away from his ear to glare at it, hoping it will spontaneously burst into flames.
“Goodbye, Gabriel.” Even away from his ear he can hear Gabriel’s loud guffaws turn into a wheezing chuckle as his brother attempts to compose himself.
“Wait, wait, bro--” and it’s as if he knows he has two seconds left, “I CAN’T WAIT TO MEET HIM FOR THANKSGIVING--”
Castiel presses the End Call button and stares as it returns to the home screen. His phone vibrates once as a new text opens.
From Gabriel:
And I’m arriving with Anna! See ya soon, bro!
---
Cas pulls onto Dean’s street and parks in the empty spot in front of the house. He tucks the neatly wrapped present under his arm and rings the doorbell.
A muffled, “Just a minute!” floats through the wood of the door, followed by padded footsteps. The door swings open to reveal Dean wearing an apron. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Cas,” he states dumbly, before he seems to remember what he’s wearing and shrugs by way of explanation. “I’m making soup.”
Castiel holds up the package. “Since Sam is sick, I figured you might need some help.” He lowers his arms. “Besides, we had an appointment, and I thought it’d be in our best interest to honor it.”
The smile that greets him causes Castiel’s stomach to perform olympic flips. Dean’s eyes shine in affection and it’s the same look he gives Sam when Sam says something especially endearing. Castiel has no proper response to the attention so he steps forward and presses his lips against Dean’s. “May I come in?”
“Since you asked,” Dean grins and pulls Castiel into the house by the lapels of his coat. “Did you come here straight from work?” he asks as he hangs Castiel’s coat on the coat rack.
Castiel runs a hand through his untamable hair, and somehow manages to make it worse. “Not exactly,” he motions to the box he set down. “I picked up a small ‘get well’ present for Sam. I hope you don’t mind.”
Dean crowds close to Castiel. “Jesus, Cas, of course I don’t mind.” Castiel mentally preens as he accepts the kisses Dean offers before Dean retreats back to the kitchen with the order to “make yourself at home.”
Castiel takes a moment to wander around the living room. The room is cluttered, but not disorganized. Most of it is a mess of toys that have yet to be put away. It’s fairly obvious a four year-old lives here. There’s a bookshelf in the corner full of textbooks -- Dean’s, he thinks -- and various pictures decorating the mantle. Castiel takes his time looking at each one: pictures of Dean fishing, Dean holding up a large catch next to his beaming father, Dean sitting on the hood of the Impala barely a day over 18, Dean sitting on his mother’s lap smiling broadly.
There’s no lack of Sam pictures, either: Sam crawling toward the photographer with a big toothless smile, Sam banging a large wooden spoon against a pot in the kitchen, Sam holding a small stuffed clown and crying, Sam’s first birthday seated on Dean’s lap reaching for the candle.
The house, Castiel decides, is lovely and full of memories. His sharp eyes, however, don’t miss the empty spots on the wall where frames used to hang, the paint bright and clean compared to the rest of the wall where the sun has eaten away at the color. This house has seen its share of horror and disappointment; this house with its too big walls and its too big rooms, daunting for two small boys struggling to fill it.
“Hey, Cas.” Dean appears in the doorway and breaks him from his dark thoughts. “Come taste this.” Castiel obediently follows Dean into the kitchen. Dean blows gently on a spoon, full to the brim with soup. “Open up.”
Castiel accepts the soup and chews thoughtfully. “Minestrone?” he questions.
Dean turns back to the stove and samples the soup as well. Pleased, he sets the spoon down and turns the heat off. “Sam’s a vegetarian. Well, a pescatarian if you really want to get technical.” He unties the apron and pulls it off, lazily folding it in two and tossing it on the kitchen island. “He’s the pickiest eater I’ve ever met, no idea where he got it. He definitely didn’t get it from me.”
Castiel’s fingers twitch with the impulse to hang the apron next to the others by the back door. “Yes, you do seem like someone with a more voracious appetite.”
“Dude, did you just call me a glutton?”
“Not at all,” Cas replies innocently. “How is Sam doing?”
Dean opens a cabinet and pulls out a lid. “He’s been asleep most of the day, but I’m betting he’s got another hour before I force feed him some soup.” He covers the pot with its lid and turns back toward Cas with a playful glint in his eye.
“So...what do you want to do? There are some great movies on Lifetime--”
---
“My my, what strong thighs you have,” Dean mock-narrates, running his hands slowly up Cas’s thighs and feeling the muscles shift under his palms. Castiel smirks above him and settles more of his weight onto Dean, pressing Dean further into the couch. “Must have been all those years playing rugby during your Oxford days.”
Castiel freezes, loosening the grip of his thighs. “How did you know about that?”
“Lucky guess,” Dean shrugs, using Castiel’s shock to flip them around with ease. “Or maybe I’m a genius. Been putting a lot of little clues together and you know, I think I finally have you pinned.” He emphasizes the last word by pressing his weight against Castiel’s crotch.
“What--”
“You’re a rich boy.”
Castiel scoffs. “Dean, I live in a modest apartment. I’m a school teacher.”
“You also play the piano and the cello, ride horses, play rugby, and oh yeah, went to Oxford,” Dean ticks off on his fingers.
“On a scholarship.” The protest is weak.
“Could you have gone without one?”
Castiel hesitates. “That’s-- that’s a difficult question to answer.”
“A-HA,” Dean cries triumphantly, and begins to mercilessly tickle Castiel. He finds Castiel’s neck is more ticklish than his underarms, but tickling his sides leaves Castiel a squirming, panting mess. Castiel tries to push Dean away, breath coming in short laughing gasps, but there’s no strength in his arms.
“Say uncle,” Dean commands.
“I have no possible relationship with your--”
“Your funeral.”
The tickling stops when Dean starts to ghost his fingers lightly over Castiel’s abdomen. The hands futilely trying to push Dean away instead draw him nearer, and Castiel and Dean kiss and nip at each other before a lull in their impromptu make-out session gives Castiel a chance to speak.
“For the record, we’re not all ‘spoiled babies with trust funds.’”
“Fair, but you still stuck up for Bela,” Dean counters, loosely wrapping his fingers around Castiel’s wrists.
“I stuck up for Sam,” Castiel corrects. “You try sitting by while he cries his eyes out for an hour.”
“I smell favoritism,” Dean sing-songs, lifting Castiel’s still-weak arms over his head and pinning them to the arm of the couch.
“I care deeply about all the students in my charge.”
“Yeah, but you care about Sam more.”
“...There’s no political way for me to answer that. Anyway, you had every right to tell me to mind my own. Why didn’t you?”
Dean stills on top of Castiel, brows lifting at the question. He absent-mindedly rubs his thumbs against the pulse points on Castiel’s wrists, watching Castiel look up at him with wondrous inquiry. Dean swallows and clears his throat.
“I may have overreacted a little. She hit my car and I saw red. I said some...stuff in the heat of the moment, to her and to you. Real shining moment,” he mutters, embarrassed. “Anyway I gave her a call, we duked it out some more, she promised to have her chauffeur drive, I agreed, yadda yadda.” Dean rolls his eyes. “I decided one visit at Ice Queen’s Castle wasn’t going to be the end of the world. Sam told me she even played with him and Ruby, in the muddy yard and everything -- if I didn’t hate her so much, I’d say she’s alright.”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
“Oh, I’m straining all right.” Dean lowers his hips to Castiel’s, rubbing his denim-clad erection against Castiel’s chinos. Castiel lets out a groan and Dean licks his lips.
“Then there’s this guy,” he trails off with a grin.
A lazy smile appears on Castiel’s face. “Oh?” he prompts, lifting his hips in search of more friction.
Dean tightens his grip on Castiel’s wrists. “And I really, really want to get into his pants.”
---
Since Sam is asleep, things heat up quickly. Dean tries to pause long enough to turn on the television in hopes it will drown out any questionable sounds, but Castiel keeps distracting him by nipping at his neck. He finally manages to press the red power button and the television comes to life, presenting a Dr. Sexy, M.D. marathon in full HD glory. Horrified, Dean drops the remote and it tumbles under the coffee table. A mouth on his neck jerks him out of his sudden shock.
“I’ve, uh,” he mumbles between kisses, “I’ve never actually seen this show--”
“I don’t care.” Dean’s yanked back down, and okay bossy, before Castiel kisses him soundly. Dean relishes in the warmth of his mouth, the feel of Cas’s tongue slipping against his own.
“This is about where we left off last time,” Dean smirks, tugging Castiel’s shirt out of his pants, rubbing his thumbs in circles over sharp hipbones.
“Actually,” Castiel points out, lifting onto his elbows and mouthing along Dean’s jaw, “this,” he tumbles them off the couch and onto the carpeted floor, trapping Dean once again underneath him, “is where we left off last time. Pinned, on your back, and right where I want you.” And damn if that didn’t turn Dean on even more.
They stare at each other silently, both panting, before Castiel says hurriedly, “I’m so sorry, did I hurt you--”
“A little, I kinda liked it though--”
“Did you hit your head--”
“Cas, it’s cool--ow--”
“--Dean?” calls out a weak voice from upstairs.
“Sam.” They both realize in unison before scrambling up. Castiel grabs Sam’s get-well present and follows Dean up the stairs.
---
“Hey, kiddo. How you feeling?” Sam looks over at Dean and coughs pathetically, squirming in his cocoon of blankets to release a hand to beckon Dean closer. Dean sits on the edge of the bed, checking Sam’s temperature with his hand. “You have a visitor, buddy. Can he come in?”
Sam turns his head toward the doorway and sees Cas leaning on the door jamb.
Sam stares at Cas and then looks back at Dean. “Am I in trouble?”
Cas laughs and stands a few feet away from the bed. “No, Sam. I came by to give you a get-well present, but Dean made me promise you can’t open it until you have a bowl of soup.”
Sam scowls and burrows back into his blankets. “‘m not hungry.”
“Just one small bowl,” Dean barters.
Sam huffs, bangs lifting off his forehead with the released breath. “You always say one and then you make me eat more,” he whines.
Castiel sets the present on the nightstand and settles down next to Dean. “I bet you feel really crummy, being sick and stuck in bed all day.”
“Yeah,” Sam sniffs, mucus running down his nose. Dean holds a tissue to Sam’s nose with a soft command of, “blow.”
“I bet you’d rather be playing with your toys downstairs.”
Sam nods sadly, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.
“Too bad you don’t want soup,” Dean tuts, “it wants to help you fight off this cold.”
“It does?”
Dean nods, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, “Soup is very powerful, very old magic.”
Cas frowns at the back of Dean’s head.
“Is that true?” Sam turns to Cas for confirmation, enraptured by the new knowledge.
“Actually--” Dean subtly elbows him in the side, “--yes. It’s a very, uh, very well kept secret.” He squints his eyes and nods sagely.
“I want to play,” Sam whines at Dean desperately.
Dean grins, victorious. “Should I bring you some soup?”
There’s a brief shuffle while Dean brings the soup. Cas pulls a red wooden chair from a corner of the room and places it by the head of the bed, next to the nightstand. When Dean returns, he hands the bowl to Cas while he settles on the bed. Sam climbs onto his lap and refuses the proffered bowl from Cas.
He looks up at Dean and says simply, “You do it.”
Dean rolls his eyes but takes the bowl from Cas and proceeds to spoon-feed Sam, making the occasional airplane sound that leaves Sam in peals of laughter.
The soup is halfway done, but Sam turns his head at the next spoonful to look eagerly at Cas. “Mister Milton, can I have my present now?”
Castiel looks at Dean for permission, and at Dean’s nod, he takes the box off the nightstand and begins to unwrap the bow.
“Close your eyes and hold out your hands,” Castiel instructs. Sam’s arms shoot out obediently, hands cupped in anticipation.
“You’re totally peeking, you little cheater!” Dean laughs, placing a hand over Sam’s eyes.
Sam giggles and makes a grabbing motion with his hands.
“I brought you a new friend,” Castiel says as he places a large, floppy moose plush toy in Sam’s hands. “You can look now.”
Sam gasps. “It’s a moose!!” He hugs it tight to his chest and shakes excitedly. “I’ve never had a moose before. What does he eat?”
“Well, funny that you ask because...” Cas pulls out a thin book from the mess of tissue paper inside the box, “I also brought you this.” He presents the book to Sam, who bounces in delight.
“Storytime!!”
Cas smiles fondly at Sam. “I’ll read it if you keep up the good work and finish your bowl of soup.”
Sam nods and opens his mouth for another spoonful. Dean feels his chest swell with warmth at Sam and Cas’s interaction. It’s plain to see that Sam adores Castiel, and Dean is beginning to suspect that so might he.
Dean clears his throat and kisses the top of Sam’s head.
Castiel props open the book on his lap and begins to read softly to the two boys listening attentively on the bed. “If you give a moose a muffin, he’ll want some jam to go with it...”
---
END PART 4