Fic: Vita Nuova V
Title: Vita Nuova
Pairing: destiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sex, profanity
Length: 12 chapters; estimated 70K words?
Summary: AU. Dean Winchester takes a job as a teaching assistant to get his little brother into a prestigious academy. He doesn't quite expect such long nights and snobby kids, but the real surprise is professor Castiel Novak: or falling in love with him, that is.
AN: As always, thanks so much for reading! Your feedback is always fantastic :)
That Saturday, Dean picks up Sam from the dorms and takes him to see a movie. It’s a crummy action flick, all muscle and explosions: another private tradition that feels good to uphold. They smuggle popcorn and lukewarm cokes into the theater and enthrone themselves in the back row so that the audience is largely ignorant of their hushed commentary and contraband snacks. Sam is content to sit and watch for a while, occasionally harassing Dean to get another handful of popcorn, but it’s not long before he perks up, shifts in his seat, and puts on the face that means he’s getting ready to have a serious discussion.
“Dean,” he prompts. Dean acts like he has to tear his gaze from the eruption of fire on the screen to focus on his little brother. Sam is chewing on his lower lip and rolling a kernel of popcorn between his thumb and index finger until it flattens out entirely. At last, he opens his mouth.
“How do you ask a girl out?”
Dean fights down a grin. “Depends. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” Sam shrugs. “You always seem to get the girl.”
Dean could cry at the irony - he’s been meaning to tell Sam about Castiel for a while now, but the right moment just hasn’t come around - but maintains a straight face, albeit with great difficulty.
“I just let her know,” he says. “You can’t worry too much. Even if she doesn’t reciprocate, she’s gonna be flattered that you even bothered. Girls are like that. Hell, everyone’s like that. It’s always nice to be noticed, so don’t worry that you’d freak her out. Just go for it.”
Sam presses the kernel of popcorn into a disc. “Easier said than done.”
“Sure, but so is everything. Look, Sammy.” Dean meets his little brother’s eyes. “Here’s my advice. Man up and ask Jessica. I’m sure she’d be thrilled.”
The color that floods Sam’s face is obvious even in the disfiguring glow of the theater.
“Who said anything about Jessica? I was just asking.”
“Of course.”
Dean settles back into his seat and takes a long drag on his soda, and Sam is quiet for a long moment, staring vacuously at the screen. At last, he gives a sigh.
“Thanks, Dean.”
Dean can’t help but smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Quiet falls again, but as the screen lights up with a series of explosions, Dean realizes that if there were ever a right moment, now would be it. No other time is going to be better, or more convenient. Although he doubts that there really is a convenient time to tell your little brother that you’re dating a teacher at his new school, he might as well get it over with once and for all.
“Hey, Sammy?”
“Yeah?”
“Listen up, okay.”
Sam sits up straighter and a worried crease appears at the line of his brows.
“Listening.”
Dean wishes again that eloquence weren’t such an issue, because the words are running about bright and buzzing in his mind so that they all tumble together on the tip of his tongue and threaten to emerge entirely incoherent. He swallows, makes sure that his breathing is even, and tries to sort through the words one by one with little success. Sam is getting impatient, looking steadily more and more unnerved by the fitful silence, and Dean sighs, surrendering.
“I’m doing a teacher.”
Sam stares.
“Well, I shouldn’t say doing. Not yet. Just dating right now. But eventually - doing, yeah. I hope so at least. I’m pretty sure he hopes so, too. Fuck, I didn’t mean to go for the gender-specific pronoun right away. I forgot to mention that. Maybe I should have said it right off the bat. He’s a guy. Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you. I really wasn’t expecting it. I tried to ignore it for both our sakes, but it didn’t work. It’s been a few weeks now. I was trying to find the right time to tell you. But then I realized there probably wasn’t a right time. So here we are. Sorry. Not that I’m doing - dating - a faculty member, I mean. Sorry because it’s so weird.”
The screen erupts into a car chase, and Sam dissolves into laughter. There’s a hysterical edge to it, sure, but Dean finds it oddly reassuring, if not a little unnerving.
“Sammy? Are you alright? Hey - my sex life can’t be that funny to you, can it?”
“Oh my God.” Sam wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “It’s Mr. Novak, isn’t it?”
Dean blinks.
“How - ”
“Come on, Dean. It’s obvious whenever you mention him. The look on your face - really. I should’ve guessed before, honestly.”
Dean’s not sure what to make of that, but Sam is smiling, and that’s good enough.
“So you’re okay with it?”
“Jesus, Dean.” And to his surprise, Sam leans across the seat and grabs him in a hug, or at least an awkward bumbling attempt with just one arm. “Of course I’m okay. I’m better than okay. This is great. You deserve to be happy more than anyone.”
Dean can’t speak for a long minute because something is clogging his throat. He claps his brother on the back once, twice, and knits his fingers into the fabric of his shirt.
“Thanks, Sammy.”
And he truly means it, and in more ways than one. Thank you, of course, for accepting me without a second thought, but not only that. Thank you for getting good grades, for still going to the movies with me, for asking my advice even when I tease you, for growing up and starting to emerge as the great man whom I always trusted you to become, and thank you most of all for making everything that I’ve done worth the struggle a thousand times over. In that moment, Dean grips onto Sam as tightly as he can. Sam, his little brother, his best friend, everything that’s ever mattered in his life, Sam, who is gladly stepping back to let something else be important to Dean, too. It’s a gift Dean can’t even fathom.
They break away, smiling in embarrassment because they both like to pretend that they hate these corny moments, and turn back to the screen just as it explodes again, waves of fire streaming from the battered remains of the cars. Sam prods Dean to get at the popcorn, and Dean grumblingly hands it over, and then the credits roll, and they hang back snickering together for a while, just like nothing’s changed. It’s easy, and it’s perfect, and for once in his life Dean allows himself to think that maybe things are finally going right, after all.
-
He drives Sam back to the dorms in the late afternoon after a late lunch with Ellen and Jo, and heads home with time to finish his schoolwork, finish grading exams, struggle through a very lines of La Vita Nuova, and drop Castiel a line before dinner. He pulls into a parking space and stops at the mailboxes before heading up to his apartment, sifting through a few catalogues and a belated Christmas card before stumbling across a thick white envelope with the academy’s emblem printed in the corner. His throat turns thick.
He sits on the edge of the bed and slides trembling fingers beneath the flap of the envelope. He knows what this is. He’s been expecting it for a while, actually, but that doesn’t reduce the speed of his pulse, and he can taste his heart in his mouth. He tosses the torn envelope to the side and unfolds the slip of paper. His stomach drops. Even with the scholarship and all the financial aid, it’s a breathtaking sum. The paper flutters to the floor. Dean realizes that he doesn’t know quite what to do.
He can’t tell Sam. He can’t tell Bobby. He can’t tell anyone. It’s just another bump in the road, he tells himself, trying to calm the panic that threatens to distort his sense of reason, and he’s handled countless bumps in the past. He’s an excellent driver. It’ll be fine. He’ll find a way. But his stomach turns at the idea of another job, especially because he knows he can’t go back to the garage - that would be too obvious. He’s already so busy with schoolwork and the academy, and to be honest, he wants to keep the fragments of spare time to spend with Sam and - his mind adds, however selfishly - Castiel, of course.
A headache blossoms at his temple and he falls onto the bed, suddenly drained. He knows he doesn’t have a choice, not if he wants to keep this a secret. At least there’s time, he consoles himself, because the bill is just a reminder; he’s already made the first deposit, so the next sum won’t be due for at least a few weeks. He has just enough in his savings, but if he wants to get by later on, he’ll either have to ask for help or get more work. The former is not an option, never has been, so Dean resigns himself to the latter, and tries to tell himself that it’ll be worth it - always worth it.
He takes some aspirin to finish his homework and polish off the last of the exams, but he can’t concentrate on La Vita Nuova in the slightest, and when he wanders to the kitchen he discovers that his appetite is gone, so he gets a beer and makes a study of the water stains on the ceiling. Eventually he reaches for the phone to call Castiel, but then he thinks of the bill resting on kitchen counter, and the feel of oil and grime beneath his fingernails, the tattered wallpaper of the apartment, the stained carpet, the achy springs of the sofa bed, and last but not least the striking contrast between all that and the rolling green lawn, the private library, the greenhouse peeking from the blanket of forest.
He lets his hand fall away again, drains the last of the beer, and decides he needs another.
-
Monday morning, Castiel is there earlier than usual, surprising Dean at the copy machine. Nobody else is in the building but the janitor and a few other teachers locked up in their offices, so they’re virtually alone, and Dean is instantly on-edge. He smiles at Castiel and focuses on the steady movement of the green bar of the copy machine, to and fro, to and fro.
“Good morning, Dean.” Castiel goes over to the sink to get water for the coffee machine.
“Morning, Cas. I wasn’t expecting to see you here so early.”
“No, nor was I.”
Dean chuckles. “Did you have a good weekend?”
At that, the suggestion of a smile appears at the corner of Castiel’s mouth. It’s a small victory.
“I did, thank you for asking. Very good. And yourself?”
Dean shrugs. “It was alright, I guess. I went to the movies.”
He doesn’t look up, but he can just catch the soft chuckle and imagine the warmth in Castiel’s eyes. The copy machine finishes with a sigh. Dean bends to gather the fresh worksheets from the bin, but Castiel’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder and he straightens, feeling the air turn thick. Castiel glances over one shoulder - sort of ineffectual, really - and looks Dean in the eyes, hand rising from his shoulder to curve into the bend of his neck, thumb trapping the escalating beat of his jugular.
“Are you okay?” Castiel’s eyes flicker downwards. “I don’t mean to sound like an injured girl, but you never called. I was - worried.”
The carbonated feeling in Dean’s chest turns sour with guilt. Not calling was a bad move, but he can’t tell Castiel why.
“I’m sorry.” Like a cornered child, he can’t meet Castiel’s eyes. “I meant to. I got really busy.”
Castiel is quiet for a long moment, rhythmically drawing his thumb back and forth along the line of Dean’s neck. The only sound is the soft murmur of the copy machine, the drip of coffee, and the unsynchronized come and go of their breathing.
“Is it because of what happened on Friday?” There’s a funny note in Castiel’s voice, tremulous, offbeat. “Please be honest with me, Dean. I pushed you. It’s my fault.”
Dean is instantly so guilty he can’t stand it, so he musters up his courage and takes Castiel’s face in one hand, managing to look him in the eyes. He wants to tell him the truth, but he just can’t. It’s too stupid, too humiliating. It casts too harsh a light on his insecurities, makes him look like a lonely child, desperate for validation.
“It’s not that at all, Cas. I swear. That was my decision, and I enjoyed it. In fact, I’d really like to see a repeat performance.” He gently kisses the bow of Castiel’s upper lip. “I procrastinated on a big history paper and took Sam to the movies. That’s all. I’m sorry.”
Castiel gives a tentative smile. “A repeat performance?”
Dean nods, and Castiel’s smile slowly lengthens. He hooks one hand around his tie, and the next kiss is more forceful. It’s an audacious move, but worth the risk, because they’re both smiling when they part, and even though Dean feels bad for lying, and stupid for even creating this situation in the first place, the worried crease has vanished from Castiel’s brow, and that’s enough.
“We can’t do this right now.” Dean touches Castiel’s cheek regretfully, because just one kiss is enough to spurn a thousand, and no matter how much he loves kissing Castiel - and he does; it’s fantastic - the other teachers will be coming in soon, and he really can’t afford to lose his job. Castiel sighs and leans into the curve of his palm for a long moment.
“I know. When are you free next? And if you say this weekend, find more time. I don’t - well.”
He looks vaguely embarrassed, and Dean chuckles, finally taking the last step back so that there’s an acceptable distance between them and no suspicions will be aroused.
“I’m not big on the idea of waiting four days either,” he admits. “But I told you, Cas - priorities.”
“I know. I get it.” Castiel fidgets with his sleeve. “I’m busy, too.”
Dean wonders if Castiel ever hates his ease of expression, because right then he looks so overtly disappointed that it’s impossible for Dean to help himself. At this point, every now and again there’s a clatter of footsteps in the hall, but he figures it’s not too much of a risk, and leans forwards to drop a kiss on Castiel’s mouth, pulling back before he can reciprocate or chastise such impetuosity.
“Tonight?” He winks as he bends to pick up the worksheets from the bin of the copy machine. The idea of stolen time with Castiel is too appealing to resist - it would, after all, be a solace in which he could forget the little slip of paper, the stains on the ceiling of the apartment, everything. It’s selfish, maybe, but Castiel’s face lights up, and Dean can’t bring himself to feel guilty.
“Perfect.” Castiel finally takes a sip of coffee - he’s left the cup resting for the entirety of that conversation. “Can I come over around seven?”
Dean almost says yes, that sounds great, before he registers the rest of the sentence and nearly drops the fresh copies all at once. He clears his throat, trying to disguise the shock, but fears the effort was largely unsuccessful, and Castiel is looking at with eyes like slices of porcelain sharpened about the edges, curious, almost guarded, concerned.
“Come over?” He tries to sound relaxed, shifting the stack of paper more snugly into the circle of his arms. “As in, to my place?”
Castiel nods, slowly, like he’s balancing an invisible object on the curve of his chin and doesn’t want to let it fall to the ground.
“Oh, you don’t want to do that. It’s small. Boring.” Dean knows it’s best to be casual, mention day-to-day flaws instead of stains and just two rooms and that bill still resting on the spotted countertop, things that will pique interest, concern, and worst of all, the desire to lend a hand that he can never accept. “No greenhouse, for example. Really, your place is better. Cozy. More private.”
Castiel raises an eyebrow. “Private? Not while my sister is crashing there, I can tell you.”
“Your sister?”
“Anna. I don’t know if you ever met personally, but she was in the science department around here. Redhead. We spend a lot of time together. Anyways, she just quit. She needs a place to stay.”
Dean wants to throw up his hands in frustration. “Does your entire family work here or what?”
“You could say that,” murmurs Castiel, the edge of his mouth quirking upwards in what isn’t really a smile. As if on a tacit queue, they migrate into the hallway and start back to the classroom; Castiel directs the thread of conversation on the way, and Dean listens, vaguely dismayed.
“My father is the headmaster, actually,” explains Castiel, unlocking the door to the classroom. “But he’s a very private man, and the academy’s bureaucracy has grown woefully vast, so it is unlikely that you will ever counter him in person. In fact, one of my eldest brothers has stepped up to the plate as assistant principal, but - well, he never really got permission, and not everyone is entirely satisfied with this rearrangement of authority. Nevertheless, that’s not why Anna quit. The circumstances were - complex, to say the least. My family can be a challenge to explain.”
Reassured by the security of a closed door, Dean briefly clasps Castiel on the arm, trying to channel comfort through the fleeting brush of his palm.
“Hey, remember who you’re talking to.”
Castiel chuckles softly. “Of course.”
They’re quiet for a moment, but Castiel’s eyes flicker downwards, then up again, and he quickly diverts the subject - regrettably.
“Are we agreed upon your place at seven, then?” He’s at his desk now, lower lip trapped beneath his teeth as he concentrates on the lesson plans. “I think I can survive a night without my greenhouse. And don’t expect too much from me, either. I plan to be grading most of the time, anyways. It’s only that you make an agreeable pillow, really.”
Dean smiles at the joke, but he can’t hide his growing unease, and scratches unconsciously at the back of his neck.
“I don’t know, Cas.”
Castiel straightens from the desk and looks Dean in the eyes. It’s an unfair advantage, that stare. Dean glances at the clock. Ten minutes to eight. He toys with the idea of stalling until the students start coming in, but knows deep down that Castiel will have none of it in the end, that he can’t escape so easily. So, perhaps already defeated, he waits for Castiel to make the first move on the figurative chessboard that has materialized in the space between them.
“About what?”
A surreptitious move, just the shift of a pawn, and yet Dean swallows, cornered. Castiel’s gaze sharpens, and he draws out a rook that flies darting down the board.
“I don’t see what you’re avoiding, or why.” He takes up a nub of chalk and starts jotting a conjugation chart on the blackboard. “Or - I have trouble fathoming it, at least.”
Dean exhales. “I’m not avoiding anything.”
It’s a token move, really, played just for tradition, and Castiel pays it no heed.
“I must be honest with you, Dean. I am - well, I am somewhat hurt. I know our situation is new to you. I know it must be confusing, and a challenge to explain, perhaps even to yourself. I understand your priorities. I’m happy to.” The chalk stops for a moment, and Castiel’s shoulders shift minutely. “But at this point, Dean, I cannot help but think you are ashamed of me.”
Dean opens his mouth, but Castiel turns and looks at him, and the words melt away.
“Please. You obviously don’t want me in your home.” At the earnest sadness clearly legible in his eyes, that little ache blossoms in Dean’s chest again, persistent despite its tiny voice. “What else should I think?”
Dean could scream in frustration - it’s not Castiel he’s ashamed of, not at all, in fact quite the opposite - but he doesn’t get the chance.
“It’s not my home,” he says, and then the bell screeches, and the kids come flooding inside. He doesn’t miss the stricken look in Castiel’s eyes, wide not with anger or hurt but rather sudden concern, compassion (and that’s almost worse, in a way), but he can’t acknowledge it right now, and honestly he’s a little bit grateful for that. Class begins, and Castiel can’t do much else for the time being. That in turn gives Dean time to think, and for once, that much is a good thing.
At lunch, he stays in to grade last night’s homework, smiling nonchalantly at Castiel as he edges from the classroom with that same sharp look still stuck in his eyes like the edges have jammed together or something. The moment he’s alone, he grabs his phone, determined to finish this once and for all before his courage fails, because no matter how he hates it, Castiel was a little bit right. He presses send before he can stop himself. It has to be done.
Seven o’clock. My place. Don’t be late.
-
Dean lays siege to the apartment the moment he gets there. First to go are the dishes in the sink, then the takeout boxes accumulated on the counter, then the empty beer bottles spilling from the trash. He scrubs relentlessly but fruitlessly at the stains on the wallpaper, and picks the biggest crumbs out of the carpet by hand because he doesn’t have a vacuum cleaner. He folds the bed back into a couch, and winces at the idea of Castiel’s soft mattress, befitted with silk sheets and throw pillows and the like instead of scratchy cushions and spare change between the bedsprings.
He steels himself against the shame turns his gut and cleans the coffee table, setting out his laptop and a stack of papers in an attempt to seem studious. He doesn’t have many books, or much spare time to read, for that matter, but he sets out La Vita Nuova and his Kurt Vonnegut collection in an effort to lend the illusion of such a luxury. Then he makes sure the closet is orderly and the bathroom clean; fortunately, Sam keeps that aspect of the place in line for the most part, and it doesn’t need much work. Finally, he hops in the car and makes a run to the store for fresh beer - the kind they both like, of course.
He texts Castiel again when he drifts past the produce aisle and realizes that there’s nothing but ramen and frosted flakes in the kitchen.
Hope you like Chinese.
Castiel texts back in Chinese characters - right, three dialects - and just for revenge, Dean winks at the cute checkout girl, even though she’s can’t be more than seventeen and keeps snapping a wad of gum between her teeth. To her credit, however, she gives him a discount.
It’s half past six when Dean gets back to the apartment. He showers, shaves, and puts on jeans and a t-shirt. He figures that if Castiel is really going to see this shithole in all its glory, he might as well see everything there is left, even an ancient Led Zeppelin concert shirt with holes in the hem. It’s Dean’s favorite, and if that ruins their relationship forever, fine. Dean tries to tell himself that if that were really the case, it wouldn’t be worth trying at all. But his skin prickles with anxiety as the clock inches towards seven. Not worth trying - right.
A knock. Two knocks, actually, neat and crisp. Dean goes to the door. Castiel is smiling. Dean lets him in and lingers on the doorstep a moment, already hot with shame, stomach rolling. He stares at the horizon, burnt pink and gold at the edges, and fights down the acrid taste rising in his throat. At last he steels himself and goes inside.
“It’s not much.” He shuts the door. “But it’s - well, it’s somewhere, at least.”
Castiel is standing at the center of the first room, just in front of the coffee table, arms crossed behind his back. He’s in a t-shirt and jeans too, but the fabric looks less tired, softer at the edges. Dean watches. He expected Castiel to look out of place, and while that’s come true to an extent, it’s not exactly so. Rather than protrude, he more of integrates into the atmosphere like a new piece of furniture: awkwardly, but like he’s been chosen to be there, and is somehow supposed to stay for a long time.
“Bathroom’s over that way.” Dean points, because Castiel isn’t saying anything, just staring - typical, really, but no less unnerving. “Kitchen through the door. Um - the couch is a bed, too. I don’t sleep on the floor unless Sam is here. Oh - wow.” He looks down. “I feel like an idiot. Christ, I am an idiot."
At that, Castiel tears his gaze from the portrait hung on the far wall - he hasn’t looked away from it the whole time, Mary with her arms around John and infant Dean, who’s swaddled in blankets and a tiny blue cap - and gives Dean one of those endless looks that sets his teeth on edge.
“Why?”
“It’s - you, here. My life, it’s so - well. You know what.”
Castiel just looks at him.
“I’m not good with words,” says Dean. “Sorry.”
Castiel sits down on the couch. “Dean.”
Dean looks up. Castiel reaches out and cuffs him on the back of the head.
“I need you to shut the fuck up.”
Dean feels his jaw go slack. “What?”
“You were absolutely right.” He’s glaring. Castiel is glaring. It’s terrifying. “You are an idiot. It’s amazing, truly. Lucky, too, because otherwise I would take offense at your apparent opinion of me.”
Dean opens his mouth, but Castiel presses two fingers against his lips.
“Do you honestly believe, Dean Winchester, that I care where you sleep?” His voice is low, tight, angry. “Actually, I take that back. I do care where you sleep. In fact, the only permissible places at the moment are my bed and yours. But do you really think that I care what your bed is like? That’s ridiculous. Why should it matter to me whether it has tassels, or throw pillows, or Egyptian cotton sheets or - wait a minute. Hold on, let me start again. Dean - ”
He never gets the chance. Dean grabs his chin and jerks him close, kisses him like he’s never kissed anyone before, so desperately that it almost hurts. Castiel surrenders right off the bat, turning pliant in Dean’s arms, hands sneaking up to wind around his neck. Dean curls his fingers into the back of his shirt and feels the grating heave of his chest, the frenetic thud of his heart. He wants to apologize - I’m sorry I’m like this, so insecure and alone and distrustful, and I promise it’s not your fault - but he can’t say that, not right now, maybe not ever, so he just keeps kissing Castiel until his lungs burn and his head spins.
“Looks like we’re both pretty sorry linguists,” he gasps, pressing his mouth to the line of Castiel’s jaw. “No talent with words whatsoever.”
“Dean.” Castiel dips his chin, breath coming and going ragged into the hollow of Dean’s throat. “I don’t care about any of this. It means nothing. Just knowing a fragment of your past, I mean - well. It makes anywhere you go a palace. Not that it matters, of course.”
Dean swallows painfully and unconsciously smoothes the hair from Castiel’s forehead.
“Okay, I take back what I said about being bad with words. Looks like I’m alone on that front.” He looks down, scarcely able to breathe as the weight of what Castiel has said settles into his stomach, sets up shop in his heart. “Thank you, Cas.”
“There’s nothing to be thanked for.” Castiel cranes his neck for another kiss, fingers in Dean’s hair, mouth quirked into a smile against his. “Now, enough of this. Did you promise Chinese or didn’t you?”
A few hours later they’re curled together on the unfolded bed, surrounded by a battlefield of cardboard containers and chopsticks, halfway through their second round of beer. Dean is grading exams and Castiel is on his laptop, planning the traditional spring break field trip: an excursion to Rome. Again, it’s mostly quiet except for the blare of the television and the murmur of the keyboard. They’re connected at the shoulder and the hip, pressed together unconsciously, and sometimes brushing at the ankle. It’s startlingly intimate, perhaps because of the simplicity.
At some point, Dean puts down the exams and gets La Vita Nuova down from the shelf, hoping that in Castiel’s soothing presence he might actually be able to make some headway. He turns to the next few verses and tries to concentrate, but it becomes rapidly apparent that Castiel is actually peering over his shoulder, even though he’s surely devoured the whole book countless times. It’s cute, but Dean can’t read like that, and he looks up, raising a brow.
“Pretty cool book, huh?”
Castiel blinks slowly, almost incredulously, like he’s just been shaken from sleep. “Oh - yes. Sorry. One of my favorites by Dante, actually.”
“What? You’re kidding.” Dean bends the page between his thumb and index finger. “The Divine Comedy was the best. Brimstone and hellfire, you know? Neat stuff.”
“Perhaps in your opinion,” snorts Castiel, but he doesn’t go back to the exam in his hand. “Are you reading that for school?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You exaggerate your plight.” Castiel plucks the book delicately from his hands and scans the page. He frowns. “Or perhaps not. This is a famously dreadful translation. Tomorrow I’ll bring you my interpretation. Infinitely better, I assure you.”
Dean raises a brow. “Your interpretation?”
“Yes. I did a translation of the book back when I was a student.” Castiel hands back the book. “I was shooting for comparative literature for a while instead of classical language. Nevertheless, I’ve always thought Alighieri an intriguing subject, and I think I did him justice. Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten most of my medieval Italian - the dialects get pretty tricky, you see, very difficult to maintain.”
Dean laughs and puts the book back on the coffee table. “You are so out of my league, man.”
“Shut up.” Castiel makes a series of crisp red circles on an exam. “There’s a lot they don’t teach you in graduate school, you know.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean leans back into the couch. “Like what?”
Castiel senses the change in atmosphere and lets the exams fall into his lap, sort of shifting deeper into the crook of Dean’s arm, positioned just so that his head nestles at his shoulder, hair brushing against his chin.
“There’s hardly a syllabus.”
Dean chuckles, and winds an arm around Castiel’s waist, unable to help himself because it’s too nice to have him there, pressed flush to his side, a little warm with alcohol and the proximity, eyes bright. Moments like this just don’t happen to Dean, and even if he’s a little bit afraid that it’s all somehow an illusion, he’s going to enjoy it while he can. Castiel holds his gaze for a long moment, lips slightly parted in a silent question. Dean bends to kiss him and it all falls together easily - too easily, maybe, like everything is with Castiel.
After a while, Dean rises onto one elbow and gently rolls Castiel over, supporting his own weight but at the same time allowing their hips to slot together and their chests to press close so that the rhythm of their breathing synchronizes, in and out at the same time, a careful balance. Castiel tangles his arms possessively around Dean’s neck; he’s pliant, willing, but not submissive by any means, and it suits him. There’s a tacit understanding that it’s not really going anywhere, at least not on a Monday night with the taste of bad Chinese food still stale on their lips, but it’s okay to enjoy the warmth, the closeness, the tug of sheets as they ease across the mattress.
In theory, of course, that’s all well and good, but soon the soft leisurely attitude begins to melt away, and they’re both breathing too hard, too fast, and yet despite all of that it’s not enough, not even close. Castiel rumbles a bit, a sound like summer thunder, crackling with electricity, and Dean dives for his throat, suddenly raw. His hands are up beneath his shirt, testing the muscles of his back, the swell of his behind, and then in his hair, dragging him deeper until his lungs burn. He tries to sit up, but he’s wrapped in far too tight, just barely suspended on his elbows, forehead pressed to Castiel’s, eyes locked.
“Cas.” His voice is already a wreck. “We should stop. It’s almost midnight.”
Castiel unwinds his arms, but when Dean sits up he only clambers forwards, darting in for another kiss. Dean lets it go on for a while without a fight - he doesn’t want to stop, anyways - but when Castiel stops to nip at his lower lip, chest heaving, he takes advantage of the opportunity and starts to protest.
“No.” Castiel hardly lets him have a word; his eyes are a little glassy, but nonetheless ablaze with a light that settles uncomfortably hot in the pit of Dean’s stomach. “I owe you.”
“Owe…” Dean’s breath catches as Castiel’s fingers take nimbly to the button of his jeans. “I - listen, Cas, you don’t have to.”
Castiel kisses him determinedly. “I want to.”
Dean doesn’t know what to say after that. Castiel works away his jeans and drags slow kisses down his mouth and neck all the way to the dip of his navel, one hand braced on the inside of his thigh. He takes him time and then some, but at last comes all the way down with a gentle bob of his chin, a soft hum caught in the back of his throat. Dean tips his head back in a soundless cry, struggling not to wear his voice sore for the rest of the week. Time blurs a bit, and he probably mumbles Castiel’s name, and it’s amazing, beyond words, but when his stomach starts to feel too tight he musters all his self-control and tears Castiel away, gasping, flushed all the way down his neck. Castiel’s jaw is slack, lips swollen; he wipes at his mouth, eyes wide.
“Did I do something wrong?”
Dean exhales unsteadily. “Christ - of course not, Cas. I just - come here, okay?”
Castiel shifts forwards uncertainly, and Dean hooks his thumbs into his belt loops, fingers on the curve of his hipbones, lips balanced at the bridge of his nose. He kisses at his jaw as he eases down his jeans, the waistline of his boxers, and leans back, pulling him halfway across his chest so that his elbows fan out around his head but the rest of his body from the waist down trails along the mattress.
“Like this.” Dean meets Castiel’s eyes. “Is this alright?”
Castiel gazes at him almost incredulously; his answer is a kiss, painstakingly slow at first, then laced with a jittering intake of breath as Dean eases his hips upwards a bit, uncertain but eager to try, led forwards by nothing but base instinct, virtually blind.
“Yes, that’s perfect,” mumbles Castiel against his mouth, and lets his hips roll forwards, shirt hitched up to his belly, jeans still caught around his knees. Undeterred, he reaches down and takes Dean into one hand; once he recovers his senses, Dean does the same, and after a bit of fumbling everything just falls into place like always, and the world narrows nothing but the murmur of the bed and their breathing, the warmth of Castiel’s mouth, the now-and-again bump of an ankle.
It doesn’t last long, but that’s alright. Dean pitches upwards with a groan and finishes Castiel with a few long strokes, and their mouths collide once, twice, and then they fold back onto the mattress exhausted, weighed down by the food and the beer and the long workday and the prospect of the rest of the week spent trying to pretend that all this isn’t happening. Castiel has his head propped on Dean’s chest, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and Dean’s arm is caught at his waist. It’s perfectly quiet for a long time.
“Dean.” Castiel turns over a bit to look him in the eyes. “Can I stay?”
Dean doesn’t know what to say until he realizes that he doesn’t want to say no, so he won’t. He won’t say no. It’s that simple.
“Yeah. Just get up early. We can’t exactly drive to work together, you know. You have to go back home to get your stuff, too. But - yeah. I’d like that.”
Castiel gives him the kind of smile that Dean wants to lay in plaster and save on the mantle, pure, unadulterated, impossibly earnest and bright, an example of what’s good in the world.
“Thank you.” He kisses Dean’s chin. “May I borrow your toothbrush?”
Dean nods, and with that, Castiel heads to the bathroom, kicking off his jeans but hoisting up his boxers at the same time. It’s absurd, and Dean has to stifle a laugh in his fist. They wash up together, crowding the tiny mirror, and Dean lets Castiel borrow an old shirt, and Castiel kisses him softly before he slips beneath the sheets - Dean’s sheets, scratchy old linen, but Dean’s and Dean’s alone - and whispers goodnight in a thick gravelly voice that’s somehow soft at the same time.
Dean lies down maybe a foot away, heart jumping in his throat, and draws the sheets to his chin. He stares into the darkness for what seems an age before he hears the soft rustle of a sigh and looks over to see that Castiel has turned over so that there’s just a slip of space between them, very close but not quite touching. Dean agonizes over what to do for a long moment before it occurs to him that it’s really fine just to lie there a few inches away, comforted by the sound of his breathing, the warmth but not the weight of his body. It seems too easy, but then again, it’s always easy with Castiel.
Dean smiles into the dark and shuts his eyes.
Pairing: destiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sex, profanity
Length: 12 chapters; estimated 70K words?
Summary: AU. Dean Winchester takes a job as a teaching assistant to get his little brother into a prestigious academy. He doesn't quite expect such long nights and snobby kids, but the real surprise is professor Castiel Novak: or falling in love with him, that is.
AN: As always, thanks so much for reading! Your feedback is always fantastic :)
That Saturday, Dean picks up Sam from the dorms and takes him to see a movie. It’s a crummy action flick, all muscle and explosions: another private tradition that feels good to uphold. They smuggle popcorn and lukewarm cokes into the theater and enthrone themselves in the back row so that the audience is largely ignorant of their hushed commentary and contraband snacks. Sam is content to sit and watch for a while, occasionally harassing Dean to get another handful of popcorn, but it’s not long before he perks up, shifts in his seat, and puts on the face that means he’s getting ready to have a serious discussion.
“Dean,” he prompts. Dean acts like he has to tear his gaze from the eruption of fire on the screen to focus on his little brother. Sam is chewing on his lower lip and rolling a kernel of popcorn between his thumb and index finger until it flattens out entirely. At last, he opens his mouth.
“How do you ask a girl out?”
Dean fights down a grin. “Depends. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” Sam shrugs. “You always seem to get the girl.”
Dean could cry at the irony - he’s been meaning to tell Sam about Castiel for a while now, but the right moment just hasn’t come around - but maintains a straight face, albeit with great difficulty.
“I just let her know,” he says. “You can’t worry too much. Even if she doesn’t reciprocate, she’s gonna be flattered that you even bothered. Girls are like that. Hell, everyone’s like that. It’s always nice to be noticed, so don’t worry that you’d freak her out. Just go for it.”
Sam presses the kernel of popcorn into a disc. “Easier said than done.”
“Sure, but so is everything. Look, Sammy.” Dean meets his little brother’s eyes. “Here’s my advice. Man up and ask Jessica. I’m sure she’d be thrilled.”
The color that floods Sam’s face is obvious even in the disfiguring glow of the theater.
“Who said anything about Jessica? I was just asking.”
“Of course.”
Dean settles back into his seat and takes a long drag on his soda, and Sam is quiet for a long moment, staring vacuously at the screen. At last, he gives a sigh.
“Thanks, Dean.”
Dean can’t help but smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Quiet falls again, but as the screen lights up with a series of explosions, Dean realizes that if there were ever a right moment, now would be it. No other time is going to be better, or more convenient. Although he doubts that there really is a convenient time to tell your little brother that you’re dating a teacher at his new school, he might as well get it over with once and for all.
“Hey, Sammy?”
“Yeah?”
“Listen up, okay.”
Sam sits up straighter and a worried crease appears at the line of his brows.
“Listening.”
Dean wishes again that eloquence weren’t such an issue, because the words are running about bright and buzzing in his mind so that they all tumble together on the tip of his tongue and threaten to emerge entirely incoherent. He swallows, makes sure that his breathing is even, and tries to sort through the words one by one with little success. Sam is getting impatient, looking steadily more and more unnerved by the fitful silence, and Dean sighs, surrendering.
“I’m doing a teacher.”
Sam stares.
“Well, I shouldn’t say doing. Not yet. Just dating right now. But eventually - doing, yeah. I hope so at least. I’m pretty sure he hopes so, too. Fuck, I didn’t mean to go for the gender-specific pronoun right away. I forgot to mention that. Maybe I should have said it right off the bat. He’s a guy. Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you. I really wasn’t expecting it. I tried to ignore it for both our sakes, but it didn’t work. It’s been a few weeks now. I was trying to find the right time to tell you. But then I realized there probably wasn’t a right time. So here we are. Sorry. Not that I’m doing - dating - a faculty member, I mean. Sorry because it’s so weird.”
The screen erupts into a car chase, and Sam dissolves into laughter. There’s a hysterical edge to it, sure, but Dean finds it oddly reassuring, if not a little unnerving.
“Sammy? Are you alright? Hey - my sex life can’t be that funny to you, can it?”
“Oh my God.” Sam wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “It’s Mr. Novak, isn’t it?”
Dean blinks.
“How - ”
“Come on, Dean. It’s obvious whenever you mention him. The look on your face - really. I should’ve guessed before, honestly.”
Dean’s not sure what to make of that, but Sam is smiling, and that’s good enough.
“So you’re okay with it?”
“Jesus, Dean.” And to his surprise, Sam leans across the seat and grabs him in a hug, or at least an awkward bumbling attempt with just one arm. “Of course I’m okay. I’m better than okay. This is great. You deserve to be happy more than anyone.”
Dean can’t speak for a long minute because something is clogging his throat. He claps his brother on the back once, twice, and knits his fingers into the fabric of his shirt.
“Thanks, Sammy.”
And he truly means it, and in more ways than one. Thank you, of course, for accepting me without a second thought, but not only that. Thank you for getting good grades, for still going to the movies with me, for asking my advice even when I tease you, for growing up and starting to emerge as the great man whom I always trusted you to become, and thank you most of all for making everything that I’ve done worth the struggle a thousand times over. In that moment, Dean grips onto Sam as tightly as he can. Sam, his little brother, his best friend, everything that’s ever mattered in his life, Sam, who is gladly stepping back to let something else be important to Dean, too. It’s a gift Dean can’t even fathom.
They break away, smiling in embarrassment because they both like to pretend that they hate these corny moments, and turn back to the screen just as it explodes again, waves of fire streaming from the battered remains of the cars. Sam prods Dean to get at the popcorn, and Dean grumblingly hands it over, and then the credits roll, and they hang back snickering together for a while, just like nothing’s changed. It’s easy, and it’s perfect, and for once in his life Dean allows himself to think that maybe things are finally going right, after all.
-
He drives Sam back to the dorms in the late afternoon after a late lunch with Ellen and Jo, and heads home with time to finish his schoolwork, finish grading exams, struggle through a very lines of La Vita Nuova, and drop Castiel a line before dinner. He pulls into a parking space and stops at the mailboxes before heading up to his apartment, sifting through a few catalogues and a belated Christmas card before stumbling across a thick white envelope with the academy’s emblem printed in the corner. His throat turns thick.
He sits on the edge of the bed and slides trembling fingers beneath the flap of the envelope. He knows what this is. He’s been expecting it for a while, actually, but that doesn’t reduce the speed of his pulse, and he can taste his heart in his mouth. He tosses the torn envelope to the side and unfolds the slip of paper. His stomach drops. Even with the scholarship and all the financial aid, it’s a breathtaking sum. The paper flutters to the floor. Dean realizes that he doesn’t know quite what to do.
He can’t tell Sam. He can’t tell Bobby. He can’t tell anyone. It’s just another bump in the road, he tells himself, trying to calm the panic that threatens to distort his sense of reason, and he’s handled countless bumps in the past. He’s an excellent driver. It’ll be fine. He’ll find a way. But his stomach turns at the idea of another job, especially because he knows he can’t go back to the garage - that would be too obvious. He’s already so busy with schoolwork and the academy, and to be honest, he wants to keep the fragments of spare time to spend with Sam and - his mind adds, however selfishly - Castiel, of course.
A headache blossoms at his temple and he falls onto the bed, suddenly drained. He knows he doesn’t have a choice, not if he wants to keep this a secret. At least there’s time, he consoles himself, because the bill is just a reminder; he’s already made the first deposit, so the next sum won’t be due for at least a few weeks. He has just enough in his savings, but if he wants to get by later on, he’ll either have to ask for help or get more work. The former is not an option, never has been, so Dean resigns himself to the latter, and tries to tell himself that it’ll be worth it - always worth it.
He takes some aspirin to finish his homework and polish off the last of the exams, but he can’t concentrate on La Vita Nuova in the slightest, and when he wanders to the kitchen he discovers that his appetite is gone, so he gets a beer and makes a study of the water stains on the ceiling. Eventually he reaches for the phone to call Castiel, but then he thinks of the bill resting on kitchen counter, and the feel of oil and grime beneath his fingernails, the tattered wallpaper of the apartment, the stained carpet, the achy springs of the sofa bed, and last but not least the striking contrast between all that and the rolling green lawn, the private library, the greenhouse peeking from the blanket of forest.
He lets his hand fall away again, drains the last of the beer, and decides he needs another.
-
Monday morning, Castiel is there earlier than usual, surprising Dean at the copy machine. Nobody else is in the building but the janitor and a few other teachers locked up in their offices, so they’re virtually alone, and Dean is instantly on-edge. He smiles at Castiel and focuses on the steady movement of the green bar of the copy machine, to and fro, to and fro.
“Good morning, Dean.” Castiel goes over to the sink to get water for the coffee machine.
“Morning, Cas. I wasn’t expecting to see you here so early.”
“No, nor was I.”
Dean chuckles. “Did you have a good weekend?”
At that, the suggestion of a smile appears at the corner of Castiel’s mouth. It’s a small victory.
“I did, thank you for asking. Very good. And yourself?”
Dean shrugs. “It was alright, I guess. I went to the movies.”
He doesn’t look up, but he can just catch the soft chuckle and imagine the warmth in Castiel’s eyes. The copy machine finishes with a sigh. Dean bends to gather the fresh worksheets from the bin, but Castiel’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder and he straightens, feeling the air turn thick. Castiel glances over one shoulder - sort of ineffectual, really - and looks Dean in the eyes, hand rising from his shoulder to curve into the bend of his neck, thumb trapping the escalating beat of his jugular.
“Are you okay?” Castiel’s eyes flicker downwards. “I don’t mean to sound like an injured girl, but you never called. I was - worried.”
The carbonated feeling in Dean’s chest turns sour with guilt. Not calling was a bad move, but he can’t tell Castiel why.
“I’m sorry.” Like a cornered child, he can’t meet Castiel’s eyes. “I meant to. I got really busy.”
Castiel is quiet for a long moment, rhythmically drawing his thumb back and forth along the line of Dean’s neck. The only sound is the soft murmur of the copy machine, the drip of coffee, and the unsynchronized come and go of their breathing.
“Is it because of what happened on Friday?” There’s a funny note in Castiel’s voice, tremulous, offbeat. “Please be honest with me, Dean. I pushed you. It’s my fault.”
Dean is instantly so guilty he can’t stand it, so he musters up his courage and takes Castiel’s face in one hand, managing to look him in the eyes. He wants to tell him the truth, but he just can’t. It’s too stupid, too humiliating. It casts too harsh a light on his insecurities, makes him look like a lonely child, desperate for validation.
“It’s not that at all, Cas. I swear. That was my decision, and I enjoyed it. In fact, I’d really like to see a repeat performance.” He gently kisses the bow of Castiel’s upper lip. “I procrastinated on a big history paper and took Sam to the movies. That’s all. I’m sorry.”
Castiel gives a tentative smile. “A repeat performance?”
Dean nods, and Castiel’s smile slowly lengthens. He hooks one hand around his tie, and the next kiss is more forceful. It’s an audacious move, but worth the risk, because they’re both smiling when they part, and even though Dean feels bad for lying, and stupid for even creating this situation in the first place, the worried crease has vanished from Castiel’s brow, and that’s enough.
“We can’t do this right now.” Dean touches Castiel’s cheek regretfully, because just one kiss is enough to spurn a thousand, and no matter how much he loves kissing Castiel - and he does; it’s fantastic - the other teachers will be coming in soon, and he really can’t afford to lose his job. Castiel sighs and leans into the curve of his palm for a long moment.
“I know. When are you free next? And if you say this weekend, find more time. I don’t - well.”
He looks vaguely embarrassed, and Dean chuckles, finally taking the last step back so that there’s an acceptable distance between them and no suspicions will be aroused.
“I’m not big on the idea of waiting four days either,” he admits. “But I told you, Cas - priorities.”
“I know. I get it.” Castiel fidgets with his sleeve. “I’m busy, too.”
Dean wonders if Castiel ever hates his ease of expression, because right then he looks so overtly disappointed that it’s impossible for Dean to help himself. At this point, every now and again there’s a clatter of footsteps in the hall, but he figures it’s not too much of a risk, and leans forwards to drop a kiss on Castiel’s mouth, pulling back before he can reciprocate or chastise such impetuosity.
“Tonight?” He winks as he bends to pick up the worksheets from the bin of the copy machine. The idea of stolen time with Castiel is too appealing to resist - it would, after all, be a solace in which he could forget the little slip of paper, the stains on the ceiling of the apartment, everything. It’s selfish, maybe, but Castiel’s face lights up, and Dean can’t bring himself to feel guilty.
“Perfect.” Castiel finally takes a sip of coffee - he’s left the cup resting for the entirety of that conversation. “Can I come over around seven?”
Dean almost says yes, that sounds great, before he registers the rest of the sentence and nearly drops the fresh copies all at once. He clears his throat, trying to disguise the shock, but fears the effort was largely unsuccessful, and Castiel is looking at with eyes like slices of porcelain sharpened about the edges, curious, almost guarded, concerned.
“Come over?” He tries to sound relaxed, shifting the stack of paper more snugly into the circle of his arms. “As in, to my place?”
Castiel nods, slowly, like he’s balancing an invisible object on the curve of his chin and doesn’t want to let it fall to the ground.
“Oh, you don’t want to do that. It’s small. Boring.” Dean knows it’s best to be casual, mention day-to-day flaws instead of stains and just two rooms and that bill still resting on the spotted countertop, things that will pique interest, concern, and worst of all, the desire to lend a hand that he can never accept. “No greenhouse, for example. Really, your place is better. Cozy. More private.”
Castiel raises an eyebrow. “Private? Not while my sister is crashing there, I can tell you.”
“Your sister?”
“Anna. I don’t know if you ever met personally, but she was in the science department around here. Redhead. We spend a lot of time together. Anyways, she just quit. She needs a place to stay.”
Dean wants to throw up his hands in frustration. “Does your entire family work here or what?”
“You could say that,” murmurs Castiel, the edge of his mouth quirking upwards in what isn’t really a smile. As if on a tacit queue, they migrate into the hallway and start back to the classroom; Castiel directs the thread of conversation on the way, and Dean listens, vaguely dismayed.
“My father is the headmaster, actually,” explains Castiel, unlocking the door to the classroom. “But he’s a very private man, and the academy’s bureaucracy has grown woefully vast, so it is unlikely that you will ever counter him in person. In fact, one of my eldest brothers has stepped up to the plate as assistant principal, but - well, he never really got permission, and not everyone is entirely satisfied with this rearrangement of authority. Nevertheless, that’s not why Anna quit. The circumstances were - complex, to say the least. My family can be a challenge to explain.”
Reassured by the security of a closed door, Dean briefly clasps Castiel on the arm, trying to channel comfort through the fleeting brush of his palm.
“Hey, remember who you’re talking to.”
Castiel chuckles softly. “Of course.”
They’re quiet for a moment, but Castiel’s eyes flicker downwards, then up again, and he quickly diverts the subject - regrettably.
“Are we agreed upon your place at seven, then?” He’s at his desk now, lower lip trapped beneath his teeth as he concentrates on the lesson plans. “I think I can survive a night without my greenhouse. And don’t expect too much from me, either. I plan to be grading most of the time, anyways. It’s only that you make an agreeable pillow, really.”
Dean smiles at the joke, but he can’t hide his growing unease, and scratches unconsciously at the back of his neck.
“I don’t know, Cas.”
Castiel straightens from the desk and looks Dean in the eyes. It’s an unfair advantage, that stare. Dean glances at the clock. Ten minutes to eight. He toys with the idea of stalling until the students start coming in, but knows deep down that Castiel will have none of it in the end, that he can’t escape so easily. So, perhaps already defeated, he waits for Castiel to make the first move on the figurative chessboard that has materialized in the space between them.
“About what?”
A surreptitious move, just the shift of a pawn, and yet Dean swallows, cornered. Castiel’s gaze sharpens, and he draws out a rook that flies darting down the board.
“I don’t see what you’re avoiding, or why.” He takes up a nub of chalk and starts jotting a conjugation chart on the blackboard. “Or - I have trouble fathoming it, at least.”
Dean exhales. “I’m not avoiding anything.”
It’s a token move, really, played just for tradition, and Castiel pays it no heed.
“I must be honest with you, Dean. I am - well, I am somewhat hurt. I know our situation is new to you. I know it must be confusing, and a challenge to explain, perhaps even to yourself. I understand your priorities. I’m happy to.” The chalk stops for a moment, and Castiel’s shoulders shift minutely. “But at this point, Dean, I cannot help but think you are ashamed of me.”
Dean opens his mouth, but Castiel turns and looks at him, and the words melt away.
“Please. You obviously don’t want me in your home.” At the earnest sadness clearly legible in his eyes, that little ache blossoms in Dean’s chest again, persistent despite its tiny voice. “What else should I think?”
Dean could scream in frustration - it’s not Castiel he’s ashamed of, not at all, in fact quite the opposite - but he doesn’t get the chance.
“It’s not my home,” he says, and then the bell screeches, and the kids come flooding inside. He doesn’t miss the stricken look in Castiel’s eyes, wide not with anger or hurt but rather sudden concern, compassion (and that’s almost worse, in a way), but he can’t acknowledge it right now, and honestly he’s a little bit grateful for that. Class begins, and Castiel can’t do much else for the time being. That in turn gives Dean time to think, and for once, that much is a good thing.
At lunch, he stays in to grade last night’s homework, smiling nonchalantly at Castiel as he edges from the classroom with that same sharp look still stuck in his eyes like the edges have jammed together or something. The moment he’s alone, he grabs his phone, determined to finish this once and for all before his courage fails, because no matter how he hates it, Castiel was a little bit right. He presses send before he can stop himself. It has to be done.
Seven o’clock. My place. Don’t be late.
-
Dean lays siege to the apartment the moment he gets there. First to go are the dishes in the sink, then the takeout boxes accumulated on the counter, then the empty beer bottles spilling from the trash. He scrubs relentlessly but fruitlessly at the stains on the wallpaper, and picks the biggest crumbs out of the carpet by hand because he doesn’t have a vacuum cleaner. He folds the bed back into a couch, and winces at the idea of Castiel’s soft mattress, befitted with silk sheets and throw pillows and the like instead of scratchy cushions and spare change between the bedsprings.
He steels himself against the shame turns his gut and cleans the coffee table, setting out his laptop and a stack of papers in an attempt to seem studious. He doesn’t have many books, or much spare time to read, for that matter, but he sets out La Vita Nuova and his Kurt Vonnegut collection in an effort to lend the illusion of such a luxury. Then he makes sure the closet is orderly and the bathroom clean; fortunately, Sam keeps that aspect of the place in line for the most part, and it doesn’t need much work. Finally, he hops in the car and makes a run to the store for fresh beer - the kind they both like, of course.
He texts Castiel again when he drifts past the produce aisle and realizes that there’s nothing but ramen and frosted flakes in the kitchen.
Hope you like Chinese.
Castiel texts back in Chinese characters - right, three dialects - and just for revenge, Dean winks at the cute checkout girl, even though she’s can’t be more than seventeen and keeps snapping a wad of gum between her teeth. To her credit, however, she gives him a discount.
It’s half past six when Dean gets back to the apartment. He showers, shaves, and puts on jeans and a t-shirt. He figures that if Castiel is really going to see this shithole in all its glory, he might as well see everything there is left, even an ancient Led Zeppelin concert shirt with holes in the hem. It’s Dean’s favorite, and if that ruins their relationship forever, fine. Dean tries to tell himself that if that were really the case, it wouldn’t be worth trying at all. But his skin prickles with anxiety as the clock inches towards seven. Not worth trying - right.
A knock. Two knocks, actually, neat and crisp. Dean goes to the door. Castiel is smiling. Dean lets him in and lingers on the doorstep a moment, already hot with shame, stomach rolling. He stares at the horizon, burnt pink and gold at the edges, and fights down the acrid taste rising in his throat. At last he steels himself and goes inside.
“It’s not much.” He shuts the door. “But it’s - well, it’s somewhere, at least.”
Castiel is standing at the center of the first room, just in front of the coffee table, arms crossed behind his back. He’s in a t-shirt and jeans too, but the fabric looks less tired, softer at the edges. Dean watches. He expected Castiel to look out of place, and while that’s come true to an extent, it’s not exactly so. Rather than protrude, he more of integrates into the atmosphere like a new piece of furniture: awkwardly, but like he’s been chosen to be there, and is somehow supposed to stay for a long time.
“Bathroom’s over that way.” Dean points, because Castiel isn’t saying anything, just staring - typical, really, but no less unnerving. “Kitchen through the door. Um - the couch is a bed, too. I don’t sleep on the floor unless Sam is here. Oh - wow.” He looks down. “I feel like an idiot. Christ, I am an idiot."
At that, Castiel tears his gaze from the portrait hung on the far wall - he hasn’t looked away from it the whole time, Mary with her arms around John and infant Dean, who’s swaddled in blankets and a tiny blue cap - and gives Dean one of those endless looks that sets his teeth on edge.
“Why?”
“It’s - you, here. My life, it’s so - well. You know what.”
Castiel just looks at him.
“I’m not good with words,” says Dean. “Sorry.”
Castiel sits down on the couch. “Dean.”
Dean looks up. Castiel reaches out and cuffs him on the back of the head.
“I need you to shut the fuck up.”
Dean feels his jaw go slack. “What?”
“You were absolutely right.” He’s glaring. Castiel is glaring. It’s terrifying. “You are an idiot. It’s amazing, truly. Lucky, too, because otherwise I would take offense at your apparent opinion of me.”
Dean opens his mouth, but Castiel presses two fingers against his lips.
“Do you honestly believe, Dean Winchester, that I care where you sleep?” His voice is low, tight, angry. “Actually, I take that back. I do care where you sleep. In fact, the only permissible places at the moment are my bed and yours. But do you really think that I care what your bed is like? That’s ridiculous. Why should it matter to me whether it has tassels, or throw pillows, or Egyptian cotton sheets or - wait a minute. Hold on, let me start again. Dean - ”
He never gets the chance. Dean grabs his chin and jerks him close, kisses him like he’s never kissed anyone before, so desperately that it almost hurts. Castiel surrenders right off the bat, turning pliant in Dean’s arms, hands sneaking up to wind around his neck. Dean curls his fingers into the back of his shirt and feels the grating heave of his chest, the frenetic thud of his heart. He wants to apologize - I’m sorry I’m like this, so insecure and alone and distrustful, and I promise it’s not your fault - but he can’t say that, not right now, maybe not ever, so he just keeps kissing Castiel until his lungs burn and his head spins.
“Looks like we’re both pretty sorry linguists,” he gasps, pressing his mouth to the line of Castiel’s jaw. “No talent with words whatsoever.”
“Dean.” Castiel dips his chin, breath coming and going ragged into the hollow of Dean’s throat. “I don’t care about any of this. It means nothing. Just knowing a fragment of your past, I mean - well. It makes anywhere you go a palace. Not that it matters, of course.”
Dean swallows painfully and unconsciously smoothes the hair from Castiel’s forehead.
“Okay, I take back what I said about being bad with words. Looks like I’m alone on that front.” He looks down, scarcely able to breathe as the weight of what Castiel has said settles into his stomach, sets up shop in his heart. “Thank you, Cas.”
“There’s nothing to be thanked for.” Castiel cranes his neck for another kiss, fingers in Dean’s hair, mouth quirked into a smile against his. “Now, enough of this. Did you promise Chinese or didn’t you?”
A few hours later they’re curled together on the unfolded bed, surrounded by a battlefield of cardboard containers and chopsticks, halfway through their second round of beer. Dean is grading exams and Castiel is on his laptop, planning the traditional spring break field trip: an excursion to Rome. Again, it’s mostly quiet except for the blare of the television and the murmur of the keyboard. They’re connected at the shoulder and the hip, pressed together unconsciously, and sometimes brushing at the ankle. It’s startlingly intimate, perhaps because of the simplicity.
At some point, Dean puts down the exams and gets La Vita Nuova down from the shelf, hoping that in Castiel’s soothing presence he might actually be able to make some headway. He turns to the next few verses and tries to concentrate, but it becomes rapidly apparent that Castiel is actually peering over his shoulder, even though he’s surely devoured the whole book countless times. It’s cute, but Dean can’t read like that, and he looks up, raising a brow.
“Pretty cool book, huh?”
Castiel blinks slowly, almost incredulously, like he’s just been shaken from sleep. “Oh - yes. Sorry. One of my favorites by Dante, actually.”
“What? You’re kidding.” Dean bends the page between his thumb and index finger. “The Divine Comedy was the best. Brimstone and hellfire, you know? Neat stuff.”
“Perhaps in your opinion,” snorts Castiel, but he doesn’t go back to the exam in his hand. “Are you reading that for school?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You exaggerate your plight.” Castiel plucks the book delicately from his hands and scans the page. He frowns. “Or perhaps not. This is a famously dreadful translation. Tomorrow I’ll bring you my interpretation. Infinitely better, I assure you.”
Dean raises a brow. “Your interpretation?”
“Yes. I did a translation of the book back when I was a student.” Castiel hands back the book. “I was shooting for comparative literature for a while instead of classical language. Nevertheless, I’ve always thought Alighieri an intriguing subject, and I think I did him justice. Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten most of my medieval Italian - the dialects get pretty tricky, you see, very difficult to maintain.”
Dean laughs and puts the book back on the coffee table. “You are so out of my league, man.”
“Shut up.” Castiel makes a series of crisp red circles on an exam. “There’s a lot they don’t teach you in graduate school, you know.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean leans back into the couch. “Like what?”
Castiel senses the change in atmosphere and lets the exams fall into his lap, sort of shifting deeper into the crook of Dean’s arm, positioned just so that his head nestles at his shoulder, hair brushing against his chin.
“There’s hardly a syllabus.”
Dean chuckles, and winds an arm around Castiel’s waist, unable to help himself because it’s too nice to have him there, pressed flush to his side, a little warm with alcohol and the proximity, eyes bright. Moments like this just don’t happen to Dean, and even if he’s a little bit afraid that it’s all somehow an illusion, he’s going to enjoy it while he can. Castiel holds his gaze for a long moment, lips slightly parted in a silent question. Dean bends to kiss him and it all falls together easily - too easily, maybe, like everything is with Castiel.
After a while, Dean rises onto one elbow and gently rolls Castiel over, supporting his own weight but at the same time allowing their hips to slot together and their chests to press close so that the rhythm of their breathing synchronizes, in and out at the same time, a careful balance. Castiel tangles his arms possessively around Dean’s neck; he’s pliant, willing, but not submissive by any means, and it suits him. There’s a tacit understanding that it’s not really going anywhere, at least not on a Monday night with the taste of bad Chinese food still stale on their lips, but it’s okay to enjoy the warmth, the closeness, the tug of sheets as they ease across the mattress.
In theory, of course, that’s all well and good, but soon the soft leisurely attitude begins to melt away, and they’re both breathing too hard, too fast, and yet despite all of that it’s not enough, not even close. Castiel rumbles a bit, a sound like summer thunder, crackling with electricity, and Dean dives for his throat, suddenly raw. His hands are up beneath his shirt, testing the muscles of his back, the swell of his behind, and then in his hair, dragging him deeper until his lungs burn. He tries to sit up, but he’s wrapped in far too tight, just barely suspended on his elbows, forehead pressed to Castiel’s, eyes locked.
“Cas.” His voice is already a wreck. “We should stop. It’s almost midnight.”
Castiel unwinds his arms, but when Dean sits up he only clambers forwards, darting in for another kiss. Dean lets it go on for a while without a fight - he doesn’t want to stop, anyways - but when Castiel stops to nip at his lower lip, chest heaving, he takes advantage of the opportunity and starts to protest.
“No.” Castiel hardly lets him have a word; his eyes are a little glassy, but nonetheless ablaze with a light that settles uncomfortably hot in the pit of Dean’s stomach. “I owe you.”
“Owe…” Dean’s breath catches as Castiel’s fingers take nimbly to the button of his jeans. “I - listen, Cas, you don’t have to.”
Castiel kisses him determinedly. “I want to.”
Dean doesn’t know what to say after that. Castiel works away his jeans and drags slow kisses down his mouth and neck all the way to the dip of his navel, one hand braced on the inside of his thigh. He takes him time and then some, but at last comes all the way down with a gentle bob of his chin, a soft hum caught in the back of his throat. Dean tips his head back in a soundless cry, struggling not to wear his voice sore for the rest of the week. Time blurs a bit, and he probably mumbles Castiel’s name, and it’s amazing, beyond words, but when his stomach starts to feel too tight he musters all his self-control and tears Castiel away, gasping, flushed all the way down his neck. Castiel’s jaw is slack, lips swollen; he wipes at his mouth, eyes wide.
“Did I do something wrong?”
Dean exhales unsteadily. “Christ - of course not, Cas. I just - come here, okay?”
Castiel shifts forwards uncertainly, and Dean hooks his thumbs into his belt loops, fingers on the curve of his hipbones, lips balanced at the bridge of his nose. He kisses at his jaw as he eases down his jeans, the waistline of his boxers, and leans back, pulling him halfway across his chest so that his elbows fan out around his head but the rest of his body from the waist down trails along the mattress.
“Like this.” Dean meets Castiel’s eyes. “Is this alright?”
Castiel gazes at him almost incredulously; his answer is a kiss, painstakingly slow at first, then laced with a jittering intake of breath as Dean eases his hips upwards a bit, uncertain but eager to try, led forwards by nothing but base instinct, virtually blind.
“Yes, that’s perfect,” mumbles Castiel against his mouth, and lets his hips roll forwards, shirt hitched up to his belly, jeans still caught around his knees. Undeterred, he reaches down and takes Dean into one hand; once he recovers his senses, Dean does the same, and after a bit of fumbling everything just falls into place like always, and the world narrows nothing but the murmur of the bed and their breathing, the warmth of Castiel’s mouth, the now-and-again bump of an ankle.
It doesn’t last long, but that’s alright. Dean pitches upwards with a groan and finishes Castiel with a few long strokes, and their mouths collide once, twice, and then they fold back onto the mattress exhausted, weighed down by the food and the beer and the long workday and the prospect of the rest of the week spent trying to pretend that all this isn’t happening. Castiel has his head propped on Dean’s chest, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and Dean’s arm is caught at his waist. It’s perfectly quiet for a long time.
“Dean.” Castiel turns over a bit to look him in the eyes. “Can I stay?”
Dean doesn’t know what to say until he realizes that he doesn’t want to say no, so he won’t. He won’t say no. It’s that simple.
“Yeah. Just get up early. We can’t exactly drive to work together, you know. You have to go back home to get your stuff, too. But - yeah. I’d like that.”
Castiel gives him the kind of smile that Dean wants to lay in plaster and save on the mantle, pure, unadulterated, impossibly earnest and bright, an example of what’s good in the world.
“Thank you.” He kisses Dean’s chin. “May I borrow your toothbrush?”
Dean nods, and with that, Castiel heads to the bathroom, kicking off his jeans but hoisting up his boxers at the same time. It’s absurd, and Dean has to stifle a laugh in his fist. They wash up together, crowding the tiny mirror, and Dean lets Castiel borrow an old shirt, and Castiel kisses him softly before he slips beneath the sheets - Dean’s sheets, scratchy old linen, but Dean’s and Dean’s alone - and whispers goodnight in a thick gravelly voice that’s somehow soft at the same time.
Dean lies down maybe a foot away, heart jumping in his throat, and draws the sheets to his chin. He stares into the darkness for what seems an age before he hears the soft rustle of a sigh and looks over to see that Castiel has turned over so that there’s just a slip of space between them, very close but not quite touching. Dean agonizes over what to do for a long moment before it occurs to him that it’s really fine just to lie there a few inches away, comforted by the sound of his breathing, the warmth but not the weight of his body. It seems too easy, but then again, it’s always easy with Castiel.
Dean smiles into the dark and shuts his eyes.